954 
M64a5 

1910 

Mi  III 

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1 


THE  DANITES 


JOAQUIN  MILLER 


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THE  DANITES  IN  THE  SIERRAS 

(IN  FOUR  ACTS) 
BY 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

WHITAKER  &  RAY-WIGGIN  CO. 

1910 


& 


y^v 


rHIS  is  a  reader's  edition,  and  the 
dramatic  rights  of  the  play  are 
reserved.  Permission  to  stage  may  be 
obtained  from  ^TULr.  <^iller  through 
his  publishers. 


Copyright  by  C.  H.  ^JtiCiller 


THE  DANITES  IN  THE  SIERRAS 


\A\0 


256379 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 


SANDY. — "A  king,  this  man  Sandy;  a  poet,  a 
painter,  a  mighty  moralist;  a  man  who  could 
not  write  his  own  name." 

THE  VKRSO^. —So-called  because  he  could  "out- 
swear  any  man  in  the  Camp." 

THE  JUDGE. — Chosen,  because  he  was  Ht  for 
nothing  else  in  this  ''Glorious  climate  of  Cali- 
fornia." 

BILL  HICKMAN.—^  Danite  Chief. 

CARTER. — Companion  to  Hickman. 

LIMBER  TIM.— Sandy's  "Limber  Pardner." 

WASHIE  WASHIE.— "^  Helpless  little  Heathen." 

BILLY  PIPER.— "Tto  Cussed  Boy." 

THE  WIDOW.— ^  Missionary  to  the  Mines. 

CAPT.  TOMMY. — A  woman  with  a  bad  name  but 
a  good  heart'. 

BUNKERHILL. — Companion  to  Capt.  Tommy. 


[2] 


THE  DANITES  IN  THE  SIERRAS 

ACT  I. 


Scene  :  "The  Howlin'  Wilderness."  Saloon.  Bar. 
Water  bucket  on  table.  Mining  tools,  rocker, 
etc.  Miners  discovered  lounging  about.  The 
Judge  and  Limber  Tim  at  bar,  drinking. 

Judge.  Well,  well,  well.  And  so  that  boy,  Billy 
Piper,  is  livin'  in  that  old  cabin  up  the  Middle  Fork 
where  them  three  miners  handed  in  their  checks  to 
the  Danites? 

Limber  Tim.  Livin'  there  all  alone  by  hisself, 
Judge ! 

Judge.  Why,  I  wouldn't  live  in  that  'ere  cabin  all 
alone  by  myself,  Tim,  for  that  cradle  full  of  gold. 

Tim.  It's  been  empty,  that  cabin,  'bout  a  year, 
Judge. 

Judge.     Empty  as  a  bran  new  coffin,  Tim. 

Tim.  And  folks  just  about  as  willin'  to  get  into  it, 
as  into  a  bran  new  coffin,  I  guess. 

Judge.  Tim,  me  and  Sandy  had  gone  out  to  help 
the  emigrants,  where  we  seed  that  poor  gal,  Nancy 
Williams,  killed,  and  we  warn't  here.  But  you 
was.  Tell  me  how  it  was  the  Danites  killed  'em 
all  three  in  that  cabin,  and  you  fellows  didn't  smell  a 
mouse  till  it  was  all  over.     {Miners  gather  around.) 

Tim.  Well,  them  three  miners  was  kind  o'  ex- 
clusive like,  just  as  if  they  war  a  bit  afraid  of  suthin'. 
They  come  from  Hannibal,  Missouri.  But  they  was 
good  miners  and  good  neighbors,  too,  and  was  a 
makin'  money  like  mud. 

Judge.     Yes,  hard  workers.     Struck  it,  too,  in  the 

[3] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


channel  afore  Sandy  and  me  went  out  to  meet  the 
emigrants  that  time? 

Tim.  Yes,  you  remember  'em,  Judge.  All  strong, 
healthy,  handsome  fellows.  But  you  see — shoo! 
Be  careful,  boys,  when  you  speak  of  it — but  they 
was  of  that  hundred  masked  men  that  killed  the 
Mormon  Prophet,  Joe  Smith. 

Judge.  And  the  Danites  hunted  'em  down,  every 
one,  even  away  out  here  in  the  heart  of  the  Sierras. 

Tim.  Yes.  Three  as  fine,  hearty  fellows  as  ever 
you  see,  and  a  makin'  money  like  dirt,  when  along 
comes  a  chap,  gets  in  with  'em,  and  the  first  thing 
you  know,  a  rope  breaks  in  the  shaft,  and  one  of  'em 
is  killed.  Then  the  water  breaks  in  one  night,  and 
one  is  drowned.  And  then  the  last  one  of  the 
three  is  found  dead  at  the  foot  of  the  crag  yonder. 

Judge.  And  nobody  suspectin'  nothin'  all  this 
time? 

Tim.  No.  But  they  did,  at  last,  and  when  me 
and  the  boys  went  there  and  found  that  long-haired 
stranger  chap  gone,  and  all  their  clothes,  and  all  the 
gold  scattered  over  the  floor,  why  we  knew  it  was 
— Shoo !  Danites  ^ 

Judge.  Left  all  their  clothes,  and  just  lots  of 
gold  scattered  all  over  the  cabin  floor!  When  I 
got  back,  and  heard  about  the  gold,  I  went  right 
up 

Tim.  But  too  late.  Judge.  The  old  clothes  was 
there,  but  the  gold — well,  that  had  evaporated. 

Judge.  Yes,  you  had  been  there,  Tim.  I  don't 
want  any  more  old  clothes,  and  come  to  think,  I 
don't  want  any  gold  that  comes  to  a  fellow's  hand 
like  that.  Why,  boys,  that  little  old  cabin  is  haunted, 
and  that  boy  a  livin'  in  it. 

Tim.    And  all  alone,  boys. 
[4] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Judge.  Well,  if  that  boy  don't  see  ghosts  in  that 
cabin,  Hvin'  all  alone  by  hisself  like  that — there  ain't 
any,  that's  all.     How  long's  he  been  there,  Tim  ? 

Tim.  I  don't  know.  Month  or  two,  maybe.  You 
see  after  the  men  was  all  dead,  and  that  stranger 
chap  skipped  out,  nobody  liked  to  go  near  the  cabin ; 
kinder  'fraid  of  the  Danites.  (Enter  Bill  Hickman 
and  Carter  L.  C.) 

Judge.  Shoo  Tim!  See!  {Miners  fall  hack 
down  L.) 

Hickman.  (Making  sign  to  Barkeeper.)  Dan 
shall  be  a  serpent  by  the  way,  an  adder  in  the  path, 
that  biteth  the  horse's  heels  so  that  his  rider  shall 
fall  backwards.  (  They  grasp  hands j  drink  and  exit 
L.  C.) 

Tim.     Them's  Danites. 

Judge.  (Grasping  pickhandle.)  Well,  as  Judge 
of  this  ar  camp,  I'd  just  like  to  purify  this  glorious 
climate  of  California  with 

Tim.  Judge!  Judge!  The  Bar  keep  too?  a 
Danite ;  didn't  you  see  the  grip  he  gave  ?  You  don't 
know  who  is  and  who  ain't.  Now  just  you  remem- 
ber them  three  poor  fellows  up  the  Canyon  and  keep 
still:  Hello!  My  Pard.  (Enter  Sandy  and  the 
Parson  L.  C.  and  cross  to  Bar.) 

Sandy.  Come  boys.  (All  make  rush  to  Bar.) 
Well,  you  are  all  alive  here  I  see. 

Parson.  None  of  these  'uns  dead  Sandy,  eh? 
(All  laugh.)  But  poor  Dolores.  Just  been  a  help- 
in'  Capt.  Tommy  and  Bunkerhill  put  her  in  the 
coffin. 

Sandy.  Was  starved  to  death.  Yes  she  was 
boys,  and  right  here.  Yes,  and  Tim,  when  you  went 
to  get  a  subscription  for  the  Dutchman  that  broke 
his  leg 

[5] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Tim.  Why  she  sot  up  in  bed  and  took  off  a  ring, 
and 

Sandy.  Took  off  a  ring — her  marriage  ring — 
the  last  one  she  had,  and  you  didn't  have  sense 
enough  to  see  it.  Oh,  I  don't  blame  you  Tim,  that 
was  her  way,  you  know.  She  was  starvin'  then. 
But  boys  look  here;  the  Parson  he  wrote  "Small 
Pox,"  on  that  butcher's  door,  that  refused  her  meat, 
and  now — well,  he'll  go  into  bankruptcy. 

All.     Good!     Good!     Served  him  right! 

Judge.  But,  I  say,  Sandy,  did  you  see  them 
strangers  ? 

Sandy.     The  tall,  religious  sort  of  chaps? 

Judge.  Talkin'  about  Dan  bein'  a  serpent  in  the 
path. 

Sandy.  Yes.  Seed  'em  lookin'  at  the  dead  body 
of  Dolores,  down  there.  What  of  it?  You  seem 
skeered. 

Judge.     Danites ! 

Tim.     Danites  in  the  Sierras ! 

Sandy.    What ! 

Judge.  Yes,  Danites.  And  the  very  fellows,  too, 
I  think,  that  you  and  me  run  across  when  we  went 
out  to  meet  the  emigrants,  after  we  found  this  'ere 
minin'  camp. 

Sandy.  That  shot — that  hunted  down  the  last  of 
the  Williams  and  shot,  shot  her — that  pretty,  that 
sweetly  pretty  girl  that,  that  we  found.  Judge,  and 
tried  to  save  and  bring  back  to  camp  to  the  boys  ? 

Judge.  The  same  hungry,  Bible-howlin'  varmits, 
I  do  believe. 

Sandy.    Judge,  I'll  be  revenged  for  that  poor 

girl's  death  if  it  takes  me  ten  years.     Why,  there  she 

came  to  us  just  at  the  gray  of  dawn,  just  as  we  seed 

the  gold  of  the  mornin'  star  croppin'  out  of  the 

[6] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE    SIERRAS 


heavens;  came  to  us,  weary,  torn,  half-dead  with 
hunger  and  fright,  flyin'  into  camp  like  a  wounded 
dove,  there  on  the  bank  of  the  deep,  foamin'  Truckee 
river.  "Why,  poor  little  bird,"  I  said,  and  I  put 
my  arms  about  her  and  took  her  up  when  she  fell 
at  our  feet,  boys,  and  laid  her  away  to  rest  under  the 
tree,  by  the  bank.  Judge,  you  know,  and  watched 
over  her,  we  two  did,  Judge,  as  if  she'd  been  our 
own  kid.  And  then.  Judge,  when  she  waked  up, 
you  remember,  and  we  fed  her,  and  she  talked  and 
told  us  all.  And  how  we  promised  and  swore  to 
save  her.  Judge.  And  then,  just  as  we  got  all 
packed  up  and  ready  to  come  back,  the  Danites  came 
burstin'  in  upon  us,  leadin'  the  Ingins,  and  all  of 
'em  a  shootin'  at  that  poor,  helpless  baby,  that  never 
did  anybody  any  harm. 

Judge.  (Crying  and  wiping  eyes,)  That  alkali 
dust  out  there  hurts  my  eyes  yet.  (Rushes  to  bar 
and  drinks.)    That  strengthens  the  eyes. 

Sandy.  And  then,  boys,  after  the  battle  was 
over  and  I  turned  to  look  for  her — Gone!  Gone! 
Only  the  deep,  dark  river  rollin'  between  its  willow 
walls.  Gone!  Gone!  Only  the  dark  and  ugly 
river  gurglin',  sweepin'  and  rollin'  by,  and  the  wil- 
lows leanin'  over  it  and  drippin'  and  drippin'  and 
bendin'  to  the  ugly  waters.  Leanin'  and  weepin' 
as  if  in  tears  for  her.  Only  the  dark  river  rollin' 
there  under  the  bendin'  willows  and — and — and  my 
heart  as  cold  and  empty  as  a  dead  man's  hand. 

Tim.  Why,  Sandy,  my  poor  old  pard,  we'll  all 
stand  by  you  and  help  you  git  even  on  'em. 

Parson.  Stand  by  you  agin  the  Danites,  Sandy, 
till  the  cows  come  home ;  and  thar's  my  hand. 

Sandy.  (Wiping  his  eyes  and  going.)  If  them's 
them,  Judge,  I'll  find  'em  and  raise  'em  out  of  their 

[7] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


boots.  No,  you  needn't  come,  boys.  If  I  can  find 
'em,  that's  all  I  ask.  Let  me  have  'em  all  to  my- 
self, boys.     (Exit,  L.  C.  ) 

Judge.  Poor  Sand.  He  loved  her,  boys.  And 
she  was  pretty.  So  sweetly  pretty.  And  to  go  and 
get  shot  and  drowned  like  that,  when  we  was  fightin' 
for  her. 

Tim.  Why  he  talks  about  her  yet  in  his  sleep. 
Parson.     But  he  wouldn't  know  her  if  he  seed  her. 

Judge.  Only  seed  her  by  the  camp-fire,  boys. 
But  he  hain't  been  the  same  man  since. 

Parson.  Always  was  a  little  soft  here.  (Taps 
heart.)  But  he's  good,  Tim.  I  ain't  sayin'  nothin' 
agin'  your  pard.  Only  he's  tender  hearted.  (Enter 
Washee  Washee,  L.  C.) 

Washee  Washee.  (Down  stage.)  I  say,  Plos- 
son,  plack  tlain  comee. 

Judge.  (Aside.)  The  pack  train !  Then  there 
will  be  some  news.  And  maybe  some  strangers; 
and  maybe  some  business.      Must  brush  up  a  bit. 

Washee.  Yes,  plack  tlain  comee  down  way 
uppee  mountain,  an'  a  somebodee  alle  samee  a 
Captin'  Tommy;  Blunkel  hillee. 

Tim.    All  the  same  Capt.  Tommy? 

Parson.  All  the  same  Bunkerhill?  Now  you 
git  out  of  here.  You've  been  lyin'  enough.  Git, 
I  tell  you.  (Kicks  at  him  and  Washee  exits,  L.  C.) 
Lie!  Why,  that  Chinaman  can  lie  the  bark  off  a 
tree.     (All  laugh.) 

Judge.     Guess  he  can  steal  some,  too.  Parson. 

Parson.  Steal?  He  even  steals  from  himself, 
just  to  keep  his  hand  in.      (Enter  Sandy,  L.  C.) 

Sandy.  Couldn't  find  'em.  And  that's  what 
makes  me  think  it  was  Danites.     Judge,  they  come 

[8] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


and  go  as  if  they  came  up  out  of,  or  sink  into  the 
ground,  Hke  that. 

Tim.  Maybe  they're  gone  up  to  the  haunted 
cabin  to  see  Billy  Piper? 

Judge.  Oh,  do  you  know,  Parson,  Stubbs  here, 
says  he's  a  wearin'  of  them  dead  men's  old  clothes? 

Parson.  Hold  on,  I've  got  an  idea!  That  boy 
Billy  Piper's  a  Danite! 

Sandy.  Now  look  here.  Parson,  you  don't  like 
that  boy,  I  know. 

Parson.  No.  I  don't  like  nobody  that  lives  all 
alone  by  hisself  and  in  a  place  like  that.  Why,  the 
blood  ain't  hardly  dry  yet,  where  them  three  men 
died,  and  he  a  livin'  there. 

Sandy.  Well,  now,  maybe  he  ain't  got  no  other 
place  to  stay.  And  he  ain't  strong,  you  know. 
Why,  the  first  time  I  ever  seed  him,  I  met  him  in 
the  trail,  and  he  got  out  of  it  as  I  come  by,  and  held 
down  his  head,  all  for  the  world  like  a  timid  bit  of 
a  girl.  Judge,  And  when  I  said,  "boy,  what's  your 
name?"  he  stammered,  and  as  if  he  wanted  to  get 
away,  Judge,  and  at  last,  with  his  head  still  held 
down,  he  told  me  his  name  —  Billy  Piper  —  then 
smiled  so  sadly,  like  her,  Judge,  and  went  on. 

Judge.  Well,  Sandy,  ain't  nothin'  wonderful 
'bout  it,  is  there  ? 

Sandy.  No,  Judge,  not  that.  It's  only  Billy 
Piper,  that's  all.  That's  his  name,  boys.  And  don't 
you  go  for  to  nick-name  him.  But,  Judge,  that 
smile  was  like  her — like  her  smile,  her^s. 

Tim.  Oh,  now,  Sandy,  don't;  that's  a  good  fel- 
low.    Forget  all  about  that. 

Judge.  Yes.  Talk  about — 'bout  suthin'  new, 
talk  about  the  weather — ^this  glorious  climate  of 
California,  and — and — and — take  a  drink? 

[9] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Sandy.  Why,  of  course,  boys.  That's  all  right. 
But  you.  Parson,  don't  be  too  hard  on  little  Billy 
Piper.  I  know  it  does  make  one  feel  kind  o'  skeery 
to  think  where  he  lives,  and  how  he  lives.  But  he's 
squar',  squar'.  Parson. 

Tim.  And  a  poet.  Yes.  Says  pretty  things  as 
he  stands  lookin'  up  at  the  moon,  a  wheelin'  through 
the  pine  tops ;  prettier  things  than  you  can  find  in  a 
book. 

Sandy.  And  says  things  as  sets  you  a  thinkin', 
too.  Why,  he  says  to  hisself  today,  kind  o'  quiet 
like,  when  some  of  the  boys  was  tauntin'  Bunker 
about  the  hump  on  her  back,  says  he,  takin'  Bunker- 
hill's  hand,  says  he,  "God  has  made  some  women  a 
little  bit  plain,  in  order  that  He  might  have  some 
women  that  is  perfectly  good." 

Tim.     Just  Hke  a  book,  ain't  it? 

Judge.  A  little  shaky  here.  (Taps  head.)  May- 
be he's  had  trouble. 

Sandy.  Jest  so.  Judge,  jest  so.  O,  but  I  say, 
boys.  Forgot  to  tell  you.  Seed  Soapy  Dan  the 
stoorkeeper  just  now,  when  I  went  out  to  look  for 
them  fellows  and  what  do  you  think?  Why  his 
pack  train  is  comin'  in,  and  a  missionary  is  a  comin' 
in  on  it,  too. 

All.    A  Missionary ! 

Parson.  A — a — now  look  here?  Not  a  mis- 
sionary? Of  all  things  under  the  heavens,  or  on 
the  earth,  what  use  have  we  for  a  missionary  here? 

All.     No  use,  no  use  at  all. 

Judge.     No  !     We're  too  good  now. 

Parson.    A  derned  sight  too  good! 

Judge.    Why  it's  insinervatious,  that's  what  it  is. 

Tim.  Better  send  him  to  the  Cannibal  Islands, 
eh,  Parson? 

[lo] 


THE  DANITES  IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Parson.  Do  they  take  us  for  Cannibals  out  here, 
in  this  'ere  camp  ? 

Judge.  He'll  want  to  be  Judge  and  everything 
else. 

Parson.  It  is  an  insult.  A  roarin',  howlin'  in- 
sult, for  that  'ere  storekeeper  to  let  'em  come  in  here 
on  his  mules.  And  if  he  sets  foot  in  here,  boys,  and 
he  will  set  foot  in  here,  he'll  come  in  here  to  take  up 
a  collection  right  off — O  yes,  I  know  'em.  I  seed 
'em  in  Missouri  and  on  the  Mississippi,  and  seed  'em 
when  I  went  down  the  river  and  took  ship.  Oh  I 
know  the  white  choker  gentry.  They  will  have  the 
best  in  the  land  and  pay  nothing.  They  never  miss 
a  meal  and  never  pay  a  cent.  A  Boston  missionary, 
bah! 

Judge.  (Shakes  pick  handle.)  Well,  then,  gentle- 
men, it's  my  official  opinion,  as  judge  of  this  'ere 
camp,  that  we'd  best  find  him  guilty  on  the  spot,  and 
execute  him  when  he  arrives. 

Parson.     Tried,  and  found  guilty. 

All.     Yes ;  let's  all  go  for  him. 

Tim.     O,  but  he  won't  come  in  here. 

Parson.  Won't  he,  though?  This  is  the  sittin' 
room  of  the  hotel.  He'll  come  to  the  hotel  to  get 
his  fodder,  won't  he  ?  O  they  always  have  the  best 
in  the  land,  the  broad-brimmed,  long-legged,  lean, 
lantern- jawed,  hymn-howlin',  white  chokered  sons 
of  guns.    I'm  down  on  'em,  I  am. 

Sandy.  Well,  guess  we'd  better  all  go  for  him, 
eh,  boys? 

Parson.  O,  no.  Don't  let's  go  for  him.  Let's 
pass  around  the  hat  for  brother  Tompkinsonsonson ; 
let's  take  up  a  collection;  do  suthin'  religious. 

Tim.  (Taking  drink  from  bucket.)  Let's  all  be 
baptized.     (All  laugh.) 

[II] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Parson.  Bully  for  Tim !  Let's  baptize  the  mis- 
sionary ! 

Sandy.  That's  the  idea,  boys.  Say,  boys.  Look 
here.     When  he  comes  in  at  that  door 

Parson.  Baptize  him,  then  and  thar.  Yes !  Let's 
baptize  him  and  give  him  his  new  name,  like  all  the 
rest  of  us. 

Sandy.  (All  sitting;  pans;  water.)  We'll  do  it, 
and  I'll  be  chief  mourner. 

Tim.     Wonder  if  he's  a  sprinkler  or  a  dipper? 

Sandy.     Well,  we'll  make  him  think  he's  a  dipper. 

Parson.  Won't  he  look  funny  though,  with  his 
broad-brimmed  Quaker  hat  all  wilted  down  like  a 
cabbage  leaf? 

Tim.    An'  his  long-tailed  coat  all  a  streamin'. 

Sandy.  And  his  umbrella  won't  do  him  no  good, 
for  the  water  will  rain  from  below.  (All  roar. 
Enter  IVashee  Washee.) 

Washee.     Missonalie — longee  cloatee — comee. 

Parson.  He's  a  comin'  right  in.  Told  you  so, 
boys.  Washee,  take  that,  and  give  him  one  for  his 
mother.    (Hands  water.)    Comin'  in.    Told  you  so. 

Sandy.  There,  boys !  Pullin'  at  the  latch-string. 
Give  it  to  him.  (Enter  Widow,  hag  in  hand,  scar 
on  cheek.     Miners  fall  hack.) 

All.    Calico ! 

Widow.     I  am  the  missionary. 

Parson.     The  missionary! 

Sandy.  (To  miners;  down  water.)  Yes,  and  the 
very  kind  of  missionary  the  camp  wanted. 

Widow.  (Aside.)  Why,  they  all  had  gold-pans 
in  their  hands.  How  industrious  these  honest 
miners  are. 

Parson.  Say,  Sandy,  let's  send  to  the  Board  of 
Missions  for  a  thousand  missionaries. 

[12] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Widow.  I  sent  word  by  the  storekeeper  that  I  was 
coming.  I  hope  you  were  ready  to  receive  the  mis- 
sionary ? 

Judge.  Hem !  We — we  was  ready  to  receive  the 
missionary,  mum,  but — ^but  not  that  kind  of  a  mis- 
sionary, mum. 

Sandy.  But  we're  glad,  we're  glad  it  is  this 
kind  of  one,  all  the  same. 

Parson.     (Brushing  up  and  coming  close  to  the 

widow.)     Yes  we  are,  mum,  by  the (hand  over 

mouth.) 

Sandy.  The  biggest  strike,  Judge,  since  we 
found  the  Forks.  Now  go  in.  Make  a  speech. 
Speak  for  me.  Don't  let  the  parson  have  it  all 
to  say. 

Judge.  This  glorious  climate,  California,  mum. 
Mum,  mum,  welcome.  Welcome,  mum,  to  the — ^the 
— ^the — to — Married,  mum?  (Widow  shakes  head. 
Miners  wild  with  delight.)  California  widow,  per- 
haps? (She  modestly  turns  away.)  A  widder, 
boys.     A  real,  squar',  modest  mite  of  a  widder. 

Parson.  Yes,  she's  a  widder.  And  pretty.  God 
bless  the  pretty  widder. 

Sandy.    A  widder!     A  California  widder? 

Judge.  Yes,  yes,  Sandy.  That's  all  right.  You 
see  the  other  kind  never  gets  this  far.  They  seem 
to  spile  first. 

Parson.     Have  suthin'  to  drink,  widder? 

Widow.  O  no,  thank  you.  But  if  you  could 
show  me  a  room 

Parson.  The  best  room  in  the  Forks  is  yourn 
till  you  can  get  a  cabin  of  your  own.  This  way. 
(Showing  her  off,  R.) 

Sandy.  Yes;  but  we  all  must  be  allowed  to  pay 
for  it  together,  Parson. 

[13] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Widow.     Parson  ? 

Sandy.    This  is  the  Parson,  mum. 

Widow.  O,  I'm  so  glad.  I  shall  have  you  preach 
at  every  service.      (Exit,  R.) 

All.     Have  you  preach?      (All  laugh.) 

Parson.     Have  me  preach? 

Sandy.  Why,  she  don't  know  we  call  you  the 
Parson  because  you  can  out  cuss  any  man  in  the 
camp.      Come!      My  treat!      (All  rush  to  bar.) 

Judge.     Who's  goin'  to  be  baptized  now.  Parson  ? 

Parson.  I  am.  Yes,  I  am,  boys.  I'm  con- 
verted ;  and  I'm  willin'  to  be  baptized. 

Sandy.  Leastwise,  we  don't  baptize  the  widder, 
no  way.  (Sadly.)  But  what  strange  wind  or 
storm  blew  her  away  in  here  among  the  crags  and 
pines,  boys?  And  so  pretty,  too;  pretty  as  poor 
little  Nancy  Williams.  And  the  scar  ?  But  pshaw, 
no.     This  cannot  be  her. 

Parson.  Pretty,  pretty,  and  good  as  gold.  But 
she's  had  trouble,  old  pard.  That's  been  a  bullet 
made  that  scar. 

Sandy.  That's  just  what  set  me  to  thinkin'  just 
now.  And  I  want  to  look  at  her  pretty  face  agin, 
boys.  For  you  see  them  Danites  came  just  as  she 
came.  Now  we  couldn't  find  the  body  of  Nancy 
Williams,  Judge,  you  know,  and  with  that  scar  and 
them  Danites,  I  tell  you  this  might  be  Nancy 
Williams,  and  if 

Judge.     Sandy!     Sandy!    You That's   not 

possible.  You're  always  thinkin'  of  poor  Nancy 
Williams.  Why  that  river  rolls  over  her,  Sandy. 
Forget  her,  do.    Now,  here's  this  'ar  widder 

Tim.  O  that  pretty  widder.  (Straightening  up 
collar.)     I'm  goin'  to  fix  myself  up. 

[14] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE    SIERRAS 


Parson.  And  me,  too.  (Miners  repeat  this  and 
all  exit,  leaving  Sandy.) 

Widow.  {Entering.)  All  alone?  And  so 
thougtful  and  still. 

Sandy.  {Starts.)  Why  I — I  was  a  thinkin'  a 
bit,  widder.  I — the  boys  have  gone  to  fix  up,  I 
guess.  You  see  you're  the  first  woman  in  the  Forks, 
mum. 

Widow.     And  are  there  no  ladies  here  then? 

Sandy.  Ladies?  No,  no  ladies,  mum.  No 
children.  No  young  folks  at  all.  Only  one.  Billy 
Piper.  A  pale-faced,  lonesome  little  fellow  that 
lives  all  alone  by  hisself. 

Widow.  Why,  how  sad  for  him.  I  shall  seek 
him  out  and  console  him. 

Sandy.  You  mind  me,  mum,  of  a  face  that  I 
saw  once  in  the  dusk  and  in  trouble;  a  sweet,  sad 
face,  that  vanished  away  like  a  dear,  tender  dream. 
But  no,  no,  you  are  taller  than  she. 

Widow.  Why,  how  strange.  I  must  have  you 
tell  me  all  about  it.  But  here  are  your  friends. 
{Miners  entering  dressed  loudly,  drink,  and  edge 
up  to  widow.) 

Parson.  Now  Sandy's  had  her  five  minutes  all 
by  hisself.  She's  talked  to  him  five  whole  minutes. 
I'd  a  been  converted  and  baptized  by  this  time. 
{Enter  Billy  Piper;  pick  and  pan.) 

Sandy.  This  is  the  boy  Billy  Piper,  mum,  that 
lives  all  alone  by  hisself. 

Widow.  I'm  very  glad  to  know  you.  We  shall 
be  the  best  of  friends. 

Billy.  O,  I  thank  you  so  much.  {Aside.)  A 
woman.  And  a  kind,  true  woman,  too.  Life  will 
not  be  so  hard  now.      No,  not  so  utterly  desolate. 

[15] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


But  Sandy!     How  he  looks  at  her.     Looks  at  her 
tenderly  as  he  once  looked  at  me. 

Widow.  And  you  are  a  little  miner.  I  should 
so  like  to  dig  the  pure  gold  from  the  earth,  too. 

Billy.  Then  come,  and  I  will  show  you  how  it 
is  done.      (Exit.) 

Parson.  Curse  that  Danite  boy!  His  smooth 
tongue  and  face  will  win  that  widder's  heart  in  five 
minutes.  Well,  if  she  don't  baptize  him,  I  will, 
and  in  deeper  water  than  he  thinks.  (  Goes  to  door. 
Shouts  outside.)  Hello!  Boys  after  that  China- 
man again ! 

Washee.  Blandee !  Blandee !  Me  likee  blandee. 
(Drinks  again.)  Blandee  makee  Chinaman  feel 
allee  same  likee  flighten  clock.  (Going  to  door.) 
Melican  man  no  comee.  No  catchee  Chinaman. 
(Drinks.)  Melican  man  he  no  comee.  Chinaman 
he  no  go.  (Shouts  outside.  Enter  miners,  ex- 
cited.) 

Parson.     There  he  is,  boys.     (Rush  at  Washee.) 

Tim.  Well,  he's  got  'em.  You  bet  he  has.  Let's 
search  him. 

Judge.  Yes,  search  him.  And  if  you  find  he's 
got  anything,  why  I'll  find  him  guilty. 

Parson.  Yes,  and  if  you  find  him  guilty,  Judge, 
he's  got  to  swing. 

Judge.  Got  anything  more,  Washee?  If  you  got 
anything  the  law  will  make  you  give  it  up.  You 
can't  go  on  breakin'  the  seventh  commandment  like 
that,  in  this  glorious  climate  of  California,  I  can 
tell  you.  No,  not  while  I'm  Judge,  you  can't.  Got 
anything  about  you?  (Seises  queue,  and  pulls 
about.)     Got  anything  about  you,  I  say? 

Washee.  Yesee.  My  gotee  that!  (Draws 
pistol.  Judge  backs.) 

[i6] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Parson.  He's  drawed  a  pistol!  A  Chinaman 
dares  to  draw  a  pistol!  Has  it  come  to  this  in 
California  ?  A  Chinaman  draws  a  pistol  on  a  white 
man  in  California!  Bring  that  rope.  (Miners  hand 
rope.) 

Judge.  (Hiding  behind  Sandy.)  Hang  him! 
Hang  him!  And  I'll  pronounce  sentence  of  death 
on  him  afterwards. 

Sandy.  (Takes  pistol.)  Hand  in  your  checks, 
Washee,  Washee. 

Parson.  Here  boys!  Out  to  the  nearest  tree. 
(Throws  noose  over  Washee' s  head;  other  end  to 
miners.  Dragging  to  door.  Shouting  wildly:  "Hang 
him!"  Enter  widow,  C,  with  Billy.  She  lifts  hand; 
all  let  go.  Washee  at  her  feet.  She  throws  off  rope. 
Miners  down  stage  in  shame.) 

Curtain. 


[17] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


ACT  II. 


Scene:     Moonlight  on  the  Sierras.     Rocky  Run 
crossing  the  stage;    ledge    overhanging;    set 
cabin,  practical  door,  foot  of  run,  background 
of  distant  snow-capped  peaks. 
(Enter  Hickman  and  Carter  from  R.  i.  E.) 

Hickman.  That's  her  cabin.  The  missionary. 
Humph!  As  if  we  could  not  find  her  out,  though 
she  professed  herself  a  saint.     Her  time  has  come. 

Carter.  Yes.  But  it  seems  to  me,  after  she  has 
escaped  the  bullet  and  the  flood,  and  hid  away  here, 
toiling  too  as  she  does,  it  is  hard  to  kill  her.  May- 
be the  Lord  has  willed  to  spare  her. 

Hick.  (Close  and  solemn.)  And  Dan  shall  be 
a  serpent  in  the  path,  that  biteth  the  horse's  heel  till 
his  rider  falleth  backward.  Is  she  not  sentenced  to 
death?  Do  we  not  hold  our  commission  for  her 
execution  ? 

Carter.  But  I — I'm  tired  of  this  hunting  down 
helpless  women.  As  long  as  it  was  men  I  did  my 
part,  but  now — well  she  had  no  hand  in  the  Proph- 
et's death. 

Hick.  But  her  father  had.  And  are  you  to  sit 
in  judgment  now  on  this?  You  are  not  the  judge. 
You  are  only  the  executioner.  No!  She  and  all 
her  kindred  shall  perish  from  the  earth.  For  I  will 
be  revenged,  saith  the  Lord,  unto  the  third  and 
fourth  generation. 

Carter.  And  I  am  to  kill  her  ?  Enter  that  cabin 
like  a  thief  and  kill  her  with  this  knife?  This  hand ? 
I  will  not !     I 

Hick.  And  be  an  apostate?  '  And  die  by  this 
knife  ?     And  this  hand  ? 

[i8] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


Carter.     I  will  defend  myself. 

Hick.  Fool!  Defend  yourself  against  the  de- 
stroying angels  ?  Whistle  against  the  winds  of  the 
Sierras,  but  defy  not  the  Danites  of  the  Church. 
Hush!  (Exit,  R.  i.  E.  Enter  Widow  and  Billy 
from  cabin,  L.) 

Billy.  How  beautiful !  The  whole  moon's  heart 
is  poured  out  into  the  mighty  Sierras.  O,  what  a 
miracle;  the  moon  and  golden  stars;  and  all  the 
majesty  and  mystery  of  this  calm,  still  world  to  love. 
O,  life  is  not  so  hard  now. 

Widow.  And  you  love  the  world,  with  all  your 
sad,  hard  life? 

Billy.  And  why  not?  Is  it  less  beautiful  be- 
cause /  have  had  troubles?  My  sweet  friend,  it 
seems  to  me  the  highest,  the  holiest  religion  that  we 
can  have,  is  to  love  this  world,  and  the  beauty,  the 
mystery,  the  majesty  that  environs  us. 

Widow.  How  strange  all  this  from  one  so  young. 
I  came  here,  a  missionary,  to  teach;  I  am  being 
taught.  But  stay  awhile  yet.  You  see  by  the  moon- 
light on  the  mountain,  it  is  not  so  late  as  you 
thought.  We  may  still  read  another  chapter  of 
your  little  Testament. 

Billy.  No,  I  must  go  now.  Besides,  I  know 
Sandy  is  coming  this  evening.  Oh,  I  know  you  ex- 
pect him.  And  he,  he  would  not  like  to  see  me 
here. 

Widow.  And  why  not?  His  is  a  high,  loyal 
nature,  above  the  petty  quarrels  and  jealousies  of 
the  camp.  Come,  come  in  and  wait  till  he  calls. 
Then  you  see  you  will  not  leave  me  alone. 

Billy.  Alone?  And  do  you  fear  to  be  alone? 
Oh !  do  you,  too,  shudder  and  start  at  strange  sounds 
and  signs  as  I  do?     Last  night,  up  yonder  on  the 

[19] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


banks  of  the  stream,  in  my  cabin  in  the  thick  woods, 
as  I  lay  there  I  heard  footsteps  about  my  cabin.  I 
heard  the  chapparal  and  manzanita  crackle,  as  if 
monsters  prowled  about ;  wild  beasts,  waiting  to  de- 
vour me. 

Widow.  Then  come  in.  You  shall  not  go  till 
you  are  at  least  in  better  heart.  {Into  cabin.  Enter 
Parson  up  canyon  at  back,  breathless,  pick  on 
shoulder. ) 

Parson.  Well!  That  is  a  climb  for  you.  If 
I'd  lost  my  footin'  comin'  up  that  precipice,  good-bye 
Parson.  But  it  was  a  mile  around  by  the  trail,  and 
I  wanted  to  get  to  the  widder's  cabin  afore  Sandy. 
She's  in  thar'.  Lord  love  her !  The  sweetest  thing 
in  these  'ere  Sierras.  These  'ere  Sierras?  The 
sweetest  and  the  prettiest  in  this  universal  world. 
Yes,  and  the  boys  all  know  it.  They  all  knowed  it 
when  she  came.  But  when  she  took  this  'ere  cabin, 
and  took  in  that  cussed,  thievin'  little  heathen,  kind 
o'  absorbed  him  like,  and  set  up  to  washin'  the  boys' 
clothes;  workin'  like  the  rest  of  us — when  I  see'd 
that  'ere  little  widder  a  bendin'  over  a  wash-tub, 
earnin'  her  bread -by  the  sweat  of  her  brow;  wearin' 
a  diadem  of  diamonds  on  her  forehead;  well,  I 
thought  of  my  mother  and  my  sister,  an'  it  made  me 
better — better — and  I  loved  her  so,  I  loved  her  so. 
(Has  been  coming  down  Run;  is  at  door.  Stops  and 
listens.)  The  widder  readin' ?  And — and  to  him — 
that  boy  Piper.  That  brat  that's  either  Danite,  Devil 
or  imp?  I'll — I'll  strangle  him.  I'll  take  him  by 
the  throat  and  choke  the  life  out  of  him  with  these 
two  hands  and  chuckle  with  delight  while  doin'  it. 
He's  comin'  out.  I'll  wait  till  I  catch  him  alone  and 
then  I'll  throttle  him.  (Exit,  L.  Enter  Billy  and 
widow.) 

[20] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE    SIERRAS 


Billy.  O,  yes.  I  am  quite  strong  now.  It  was 
only  a  passing  shadow ;  as  the  clouds  will  sometimes 
shut  out  the  light  of  the  sun  or  the  beauty  of  yon 
moon.  I  suppose  such  moments  come  to  us  all. 
Good-night.     My  cabin  is  not  far. 

Widow.  And  if  anything  happens,  or  you  feel 
at  all  sad  or  lonely,  come  back,  and  Sandy,  if  he 
comes,  I  am  sure  will  be  glad  to  take  you  to  his 
own  cabin  and  cheer  you  up. 

Billy.  Sandy!  You  know  not  what  you  say. 
But  no.  It  is  /  rather,  that  know  not  what  /  say. 
Good-night. 

Widow.  Good-night.  And  come  again  soon  to 
read  the  other  chapters. 

Billy.  I  will  come.  Good-night.  (Widow 
closes  door.  Billy  looks  off .)  How  full  of  rest  and 
peace  the  whole  world  seems.  But  I  ?  I  am  as  the 
dove  that  was  sent  forth  from  out  the  Ark  and  found 
not  where  to  set  its  foot.  The  olive  branch?  It 
is  not  for  me.      (Enter  Judge  and  Tim,  L.) 

Tim.  Yes,  Judge,  my  pard's  cut  the  sand  clean 
from  under  the  Parson's  feet,  I  guess.  He's  goin' 
to  pop  to-night,  he  tells  me,  if  he  can  only  pump 
up  the  spunk  to  do  it.  (Takes  bottle  from  boot 
leg;  they  drink;  he  returns  it.) 

Judge.  Goin'  to  get  married?  Well  Tim,  in 
this  glorious  climate  of  California,  I  tell  you  one 
feels  like — like — well,  as  if  he  must  do  suthin',  Tim. 

Tim.     If  there  was  only  more  women.  Judge. 

Judge.  That's  it  Tim.  I  tell  you,  it  makes  me 
feel  sort  of,  of  warlike  to  think  about  what  Sandy's 
goin'  to  do.      I  tell  you,  in  this  glorious  climate  of 

of   California (Billy   down   stage   and   they 

meet.) 

Tim.     Billy  Piper  at  the  widder's  agin?     Judge, 

[21] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


you're  the  Judge  of  this  'ere  camp.      Set  him  up. 

Judge.  Billy,  as  Judge  of  this  'ere  camp  I  must 
say  that  you  ain't  doin'  the  squar'.  The  boys  talk 
powerful  rough  about  you  and  her.  You're  a  cry  in' 
shame  to  the  — the — ^the — ^this  glorious  climate  of 
California.  And  Billy  for  the  reputation  of  this 
'ere  camp  I  think  I'll  punch  your  head.  (About  to 
strike.    Enter  Capt.  Tommy  and  Bunkerhill,  L.) 

Capt.  Tommy.  (Fist  in  Judge's  face.)  Touch 
that  boy  and  I'll  knock  the  corn  juice  out  of  you. 
Yes  I  will,  and  you  too.  Light  out,  Billy.  (Exit 
Billy,  R.  3  E.)  You  bald-headed,  gum-suckin'  old 
idiot. 

Bunkerhill.  Tackle  a  boy,  eh  ?  'Bout  the  only 
thing  in  the  camp  you  could  lick  anyhow;  both  of 
you. 

Judge.  Well,  Capt.  Tommy,  I'm  magistrate  and 
must  not  fight.     But  Tim — speak  to  her,  Tim. 

Tim.  Yes,  he's  a  magistrate;  and  you've  got  to 
keep  the  peace  too,  or  he'll 

Capt.  Tommy.  Well,  do  you  want  to  take  it  up? 
You  long-legged,  jackass  rabbit  you.  Come  on,  both 
of  you.     I'm  your  match. 

Bunkerhill.  Takes  both  of  'em  to  make  one 
man.     (Enter  Widow  from  cabin.) 

Judge.  Ahem!  The  widder!  Good  evenin', 
marm.  I'll  put  'em  under  arrest  for  bein'  drunk 
and  disorderly,  if  they  disturb  you,  marm. 

Capt.  Tommy.  Widder,  sorry  to  disturb  you. 
Bunker  and  me  is  allers  in  trouble.  Allers,  allers. 
And  not  allers  for  faults  of  our  own,  mum ;  it's  the 
bad  name,  mum. 

Bunkerhill.  It's  the  bad  name,  mum.  And 
we  must  bear  it.  Good-night,  widder,  good-night. 
(Going.) 

[22] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Capt.  Tommy.  Don't  think  too  hard  of  us.  We 
hain't  had  no  bringin'  up,  Hke  better  women  has. 
But  we  won't  never  make  no  rows  anymore,  mum, 
if  you'll  forgive  us. 

Widow.  Forgive  you?  You  have  done  me  no 
harm,  and  if  you  have  trouble,  young  ladies,  remem- 
ber it  is  yourselves  you  harm.  You  do  yourselves 
harm,  young  ladies. 

Capt.  Tommy.  (To  Bunker.)  Young  ladies! 
She  called  us  young  ladies. 

BuNKERHiLL.  She's  a  good  'un,  Tommy.  A 
good,  squar'  woman.      (Both  returning.) 

Capt.  Tommy.  (Weeping.)  Widder,  between  us 
rolls  a  wide  river  that  has  borne  Bunker  and  me 
from  the  high,  sunny  shore  where  you  stand  to  the 
dark,  muddy  t'other  side;  and  I'll  not  try  to  cross  it, 
widder.  But  God  bless  you  for  callin'  us  young 
ladies.  We  was  good  once,  and  we  had  mothers 
once.  Yes,  we  had,  mothers,  and  fathers,  and  little 
baby  brothers  and  sisters,  and —  (Tim  affected. 
Judge  takes  out  handkerchief.) 

BuNKERHiLL.  Ycs,  fathers  and  mothers  and 
little  brothers  and  sisters  that  loved  us,  before  we 
fell  into  the  dark  river  that  bore  us  far  from  the 
high,  white  shore  where  you  stand,  widder. 

Widow.  (Offering  hands.)  The  river  is  not  so 
wide  that  my  hands  will  not  reach  across  it.  If 
my  feet  are  on  the  solid  bank,  take  my  hand,  hold 
strong  and  come  up  and  stand  by  my  side.  (They 
hesitate,  grasp  her  hands  and  kiss  them.) 

Judge.  Tim,  I  feel  as  if  I'd  been  to  meetin'  in 
Missouri  and,  and,  got  religion. 

Tim.  You  old  fool,  you're  a  cryin' ;  Capt.  Tom- 
my, she's  a  cryin';  and  Bunker — she's  a — (Breaks 
down.) 

123] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Judge.  Capt.  Tommy,  I'm  an  old,  busted,  bald- 
headed  old — well,  I  guess  I  am  an  old  fool.  But 
you've  made  me  better.  And  if  you'll  take  me  for 
better  or  for  worse 

Tim.  And  me,  too.  Bunker.  I'm  hot  lead  in  a 
bullet  ladle.  All  melted  up.  Take  me?  (Both 
greatly  amazed.  Confer  aside,  then  frankly  for- 
ward,) 

Bunker.  Well,  if  you'll  be  good  to  Billy,  and  to 
everybody. 

Tim.  Good  to  Billy?  You  will  make  us  good  to 
all.  Good !  But  come.  Now  let  us  go  tell  Sandy. 
{Both  embrace;  ladies  take  arms  and  going.) 

Judge.     O,  this  glorious  climate  of  California! 

Widow.     You  will  all  come  to  see  me  ? 

Judge.  We  will  come.  Good-night.  {Exit,  R. 
3  £;   Widow  looking  after.    Enter  Sandy,  L.  i  E.) 

Sandy.  Why,  widder,  you — you  out  here  ?  You 
— you  waitin'  here  for  me,  widder?  Say  yes, 
widder.  Say  you  were  waitin'  for  me,  and  it  will  be 
as  if  the  sun,  and  the  moon,  and  the  stars  all^ 
together  shone  out  over  the  Sierras,  and  made  this* 
another  Eden,  with  its  one  sweet  woman  in  the 
center  of  God's  own  garden  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
and — and 

Widow.  Why,  Sandy!  You  used  to  sit  for 
hours  in  my  cabin  and  not  say  one  word,  and  now, 
you  talk  like  a  running  brook. 

Sandy.  No,  no,  widder.  I  can't  talk.  I  never 
could.  I  never  can,  widder.  But  widder,  it's  not 
them  that  can  talk  that  feel.  You  hear  the  waters 
thunderin'  down  that  ar'  canyon  over  thar'  ?  They 
are  shallow  and  foamy,  and  wild.  But  where  they 
meet  the  river  away  down  below,  they  are  calm 
and  still.     But,  they  are  deep  and  strong,  and  clear. 

[24] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


So  widder,  it  seems  to  me  with  the  hearts  of  men 
and  women.  And  widder,  when  I  stood  thinkin'  of 
you,  to-day 

Widow.    You  thought  of  me  to-day  ? 

Sandy.  To-day?  Yesterday!  To-morrow!  For- 
ever! O,  widder,  as  I  bent  to  my  work  in  the 
runnin'  water,  the  white  clouds  far  up  above  me 
tangled  in  the  high,  dark  tops  of  the  pines,  the  gold 
shinin'  there  in  the  dark  loam  and  muck,  as  the  pure 
waters  poured  over  it;  the  gold  as  pure  and  true, 
and  as  beautiful  as  your  noble  life,  my  lady,  I 
thought  of  you,  how  that  you  was  like  that  gold  in 
the  loam  and  in  the  muck,  among  us  all.  And — 
and 

Widow.  Us  all?  (Aside.)  Why  can't  he  speak 
up  for  himself,  now  that  he  has  learned  to  speak? 
(Aloud.)  And  you  think  I  have  done  good  here 
— for  us  all  ? 

Sandy.  Good!  You  have  been  the  seasons  of 
the  year.  The  spring  and  summer,  and  the  fruit 
and  flower  of  the  year,  to  every  one  of  us.  Why, 
we'd  a  hung  that  cussed  Chinaman.  We  would. 
Yes,  and  never  a  thought  about  it  after  he  was 
buried.  And,  why  we  hain't  hardly  had  a  funeral 
since  you  came,  and  we  used  to  have  'em  every  Sun- 
day, when  only  Bunker  and  Capt.  Tommy  and  poor 
dead  Dolores  was  here.  O,  yes,  you've  helped  us, 
widder. 

Widow.  Helped  us.  Has  the  little  missionary 
done  you  no  good,  Sandy  ? 

Sandy.  O,  yes,  you — yes,  you — you — you — 
washed  my  shirt. 

Widow.     Oh  Sandy! 

Sandy.  Yes,  that  was  good  in  you,  widder.  But 
you  see  that's  considerable  trouble  to  a  feller  too,  as 

[25] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


well  as  help.  For  when  a  feller  has  to  send  his  pard 
with  his  shirt  and  go  to  bed  till  it  gets  back 

Widow.     Why  Sandy,  haven't  you  but  one  shirt? 

Sandy.  But  one  shirt?  Do  you  think  a  man 
wants  a  thousand  shirts  in  the  Sierras  ? 

Widow.  O  Sandy,  you  do  need  a  missionary,  in- 
deed you  do,  Sandy.  You  want  a  missionary  badly. 
{Sandy  sta/rts,  omd  for  the  first  time  seems  to  under- 
stand.) 

Sandy.  I — I — yes,  widder,  I  do  want  a  mission- 
ary; I  need  a  missionary.  / — / — the  great,  rough 
heathen  of  this  'ere  camp.  Never  did  a  cannibal 
hunger  for  a  missionary  as  my  heart  hungers  for — 

for Widder,  will  you — can  you — can  you — 

will  you  be  my  missionary  ? — my  wife  ? 

Widow.  Sandy,  here  is  my  hand ;  my  heart  you 
ought  to  have  known  has  long  been  yours.  {Offer- 
ing hand.) 

Sandy.  You — ^you — you  don't  mean  it  ?  Is  it  me 
that's  to  have  you?  Rough,  bluif,  bearded  old 
Sandy.  Not  the  Parson ;  not  slim  Limber  Tim,  not 
that  gentle,  sweet  boy,  Billy  Piper,  but  Sandy? 
Sandy,  strong  as  a'  pine  in  Winter,  and  rough  as  the 
bark  of  a  tree.  And  this — ^this  soft,  lily-like  hand 
to  be  laid  in  his !  O,  widder,  you  don't  mean  to  give 
me  this  dear,  tremblin'  little  hand,  do  you?  Soft 
and  white,  and  flutterin'  like  a  dove  that  has  just 
been  caught.  Is  this  little  hand  to  be  mine  for 
storms  or  sunny  weather,  widder? 

Widow.     Yes,  Sandy. 

Sandy.  {Taking  her  in  his  arms.)  Jerusalem! 
Mine!  Mine!  My  wife!  Mine,  to  work  for,  to 
plan  for,  to  love  and  to  live  for!  Mine!  Mine! 
Mine !     My  beauty !     Mine !     Mine,  at  last !     {Re- 

[26] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Hecting.)  But,  widder,  my  cabin  is  a  rough  place. 
Only  a  little  log  hut. 

Widow.  Sandy,  great  love  is  content  to  live  in 
a  very  small  house. 

Sandy.  True,  widder,  true.  Love,  real  un- 
selfish love,  it  seems  to  me,  could  be  content  under 
the  trees ;  in  the  boughs  of  the  trees,  like  the  birds ; 
in  the  mountains;  everywhere  that  love — ^that  love 
— finds  love — ^to — love,  love. 

Widow.  Yes,  Sandy.  Anywhere  that  love  finds 
love. 

Sandy.  Yes,  yes.  You  see  I  know  about  what  it 
is  I  want  to  say,  but  I  can't  say  it  as  well  as  you  can. 

Widow.  Nonsense,  Sandy.  But  the  moon  is  low, 
and 

Sandy.  And  I  must  go.  Well,  you're  right 
But  before  I  go,  widder,  if  you  love  me — {Embraces 
and  kisses  her.)  Moses  in  the  bulrushes!  The 
world  is  a  bigger  world  now.  I  seem  to  stand  on 
the  summit  of  the  Sierras,  six  feet  two  inches  taller 
than  the  tallest  mountain  top.  Oh,  widder,  this  is 
Paradise  with  its  one  little  woman,  and  now  you're 
goin'  to  drive  me  out  of  it. 

Widow.  Yes,  you  must  go  now.  You  see  we 
are  here  in  the  open  trail,  and  the  miners  on  the 
night-watch,  passing  to  and  from  their  tunnels,  will 
think  it  strange  on  seeing  us  together  so  late. 

Sandy.  Right,  widder.  It's  a  man's  place  to 
brighten  a  woman's  name,  not  to  soil  it.    Good-night. 

Widow.  To-morrow,  Sandy.  Good-night.  (Exits 
into  cabin.) 

Sandy.  To-morrow !  O,  moon,  go  down !  And 
sun  rise  up  and  set,  for  I  can  never  wait.  To-mor- 
row! And  I  kissed  her!  And  her  soul  overflowed 
and  filled  mine  full  as  a  river  flooding  its  willow 

[27] 


THE  DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


banks.  I  must  tell  Tim,  and  Tim  will  tell  the  Judge, 
and  the  Judge  will  tell  the  boys,  and  the  boys  will 
bust.  For  it's  too  much  happiness  for  one  little  camp 
to  hold.    To-morrow !    Mine !    My  wife !    (Starting 

to  go.)     And  I  kissed  her,  and  kissed  her,  and 

(Turns  to  go  up  stage,  and  meets  Parson  face  to 
face.) 

Parson.  Talkin'  in  your  sleep,  Sandy  ?  'Pears  to 
me  you're  actin'  mighty  queer,  eh?  Been  seein'  the 
widder  agin'  ?  Mustn't  get  excited  where  woman  is 
concerned.  Sort  of  like  buck  ager.  Miss  your 
game,  sure,  if  you  get  excited,  Sandy. 

Sandy.  O,  yes,  I  know  all  about  that,  you  know. 
Oh,  I'm  not — not  afraid  of  a  little  woman  like  that. 

Parson.  Well,  say,  old  pard,  Sandy,  you — you 
didn't  really  have  a  serious  talk  with  her?  Squar', 
now,  Sandy.  Squar'  as  a  coffin  lid,  Sandy.  We 
were  old  pards  once,  you  and  me,  Sandy.  We 
don't  want  to  send  each  other  up  on  the  hill  thar, 
Sandy.  So  you'll  be  squar'  with  me,  an'  I'll  be 
squar'  with  you.  I  love  that  'ere  woman  thar, 
and 

Sandy.  Well — well.  The  fact  is.  Parson — ^you 
can't  help  it,  I  guess.  Now,  I'll  tell  you.  That  'ere 
little  woman,  she's — come  and  take  a  drink. 

Parson.  No,  thank  you,  Sandy.  Got  to  set  my 
night-watch  in  the  tunnel,  and  change  my  drifters. 
But  it's  to  be  a  squar'  fight,  Sandy,  and  there's  my 
hand.    And  if  you  git  her,  Sandy — git  her  squar' ! 

Sandy.    Squar',  Parson.    Squar'!   (Exit  L,  i  E.) 

Parson.  Good-night.  Got  him  out  of  the  way, 
and  I'll  see  her  right  oif,  and  tell  her — tell  her  like 
a  man  I  love  her.  (About  to  enter  cabin.  Limber 
Tim  and  Billy  enter  R.  ^  E.)  Pshaw !  Here  comes 
Tim  and  that  cussed  boy.  (Exit  L,  behind  cabin.) 
[28] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Billy.  There  is  somebody  prowling  about  my 
cabin,  Tim.    I  can't;   I  won't  stay  there  to-night. 

Tim.  Well,  you  do  look  skeered.  (Aside.) 
Ghosts,  I'll  bet  a  gold  mine !  (Aloud.)  Three  men, 
wasn't  there  ?    Your  face  is  white  as  snow,  Billy. 

Billy.  And  my  hair  will  be  as  white.  O,  Tim, 
I  tell  you  there  are  two  men,  and 

Tim.  Three!  (Aside.)  There  was  three  of 'em 
killed,  and  they've  come  back.  (To  Billy.)  Pull  up, 
Billy.  I'll  tell  my  pard,  Sandy.  But  you  see  his  mind 
is  awful  full  now.  O,  he's  got  a  powerful  mind.  But 
it  takes  it  all,  and  more  too,  to  tend  to  her.  (Point- 
ing to  cabin.) 

Billy.    And  he  really  loves,  and  will  marry  her? 

Tim.  That's  the  little  game,  he's  tryin'  to  play, 
Billy.  Guess  he's  got  the  keerds  to  do  it  too.  I  tell 
you  the  moon  shines  mighty  bright  for  my  pard  to- 
night, Billy.    Oh,  he's  a  happy  man  I  can  tell  you. 

Billy.  Tim,  tell  me  this.  Why  is  it  that  the 
graveyards  are  always  on  a  hill  ?  Is  it  because  it  is 
a  little  nearer  heaven? 

Tim.  (Turning  away.)  Well,  I — I — well  Billy, 
I  don't  take  to  graveyards  and  sich  like.  May  be 
it's  a  prettier  view  up  thar'.  But  then  they  can't  see, 
with  their  eyes  full  of  dust. 

Billy.  No.  Nor  feel,  nor  understand,  nor  suf- 
fer. Love  and  be  unloved,  know  and  be  unknown 
through  all  the  weary  years  of  this  weary,  loveless 
life.  Oh,  Tim,  Tim !  (  Tim  knocks  at  door.  Enter 
Widow.) 

Tim.  Widder !  Billy's  took  sick.  Poetry ;  pretty ; 
stars;  grave  yards  and  sich.  Mustard  plaster, 
physic  and  peppermint  tea.  Take  care  of  him,  wid- 
der, till  I  tell  Sandy.     (Exit  L.  i  E.) 

Widow.    What  is  the  matter,  Billy? 

[29] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


Billy.  Sandy.  Has  he  been  here,  as  you  ex- 
pected, and  told  you  all? 

Widow.    All,  all.    And  I  am  so  happy. 

Billy.    And  /  am  so  miserable. 

Widow.  O,  Billy,  why  is  this?  Why  are  you 
so  miserable  when  your  friends  are  to  be  so  happy  ? 
Can  you  not  tell  me?  Can  you  not  trust  me?  And 
can  you  not  trust  Sandy,  too? 

Billy.  No,  no,  no.  Down  to  the  door  of  the 
tomb,  even  over  the  dark  river,  alone  I  must  bear 
my  secret,  my  sufferings  and  my  cross.  O,  you  can- 
not guess.  You  will  never  know  the  dark  and 
dreadful  truth,  the  mystery,  the  awful  crimes 

Widow.  Crimes!  Crimes!  Then  you  are — you 
are  a  Danite? 

Billy.    I,  a  Danite?    I? 

Widow.  Yes,  I  see  it  all  now.  Men  have  been 
seen  prowling  about  your  cabin  at  night.  They 
have  been  seen  to  enter  it  in  your  absence. 

Billy.  Merciful  heavens,  what  do  you  say  ?  Then 
I  am  doomed.  Oh,  if  it  would  come.  If  it  would 
come  now !  Now !  Sudden,  and  swift,  and  certain. 
Now !  Oh,  this  suspense  is  more  than  death.  This 
waiting  day  and  night,  night  and  day,  for  the  execu- 
tioner to  strike.  Come !  Come !  O,  I  cannot  bear 
this  any  longer.  Come,  death!  Father  in  heaven 
take — take  me !  Pity  and  take  me  now.  Oh !  Oh ! 
This  is  death!     (Falls.) 

Widow.  What  terrible  thing  is  this?  Will  no 
one  come  ?  He  is  dying,  and  no  one  to  help.  Dying, 
choking  to  death.     (Opens  collar.)    A  woman! 

Billy.  Hush.  A  whisper  would  be  my  death 
warrant.  (Danites  appear  on  cliff  watching.)  You 
hold  the  secret  of  my  life.    You  hold  my  life  itself. 

Widow.    You  are 

[30] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Billy.  Nancy  Williams.  (Danites  disappear.) 
But  you  will  keep  my  secret? 

Widow.  As  these  Sierras  keep  the  secrets  of 
their  Creator. 

Billy.  Thank  you !  thank  you !  My  sister,  my 
friend.  And  when  all  is  over;  when  dying  from 
this  constant  strain  and  terror;  when  dead  in  my 
cabin  yonder;  then  bring  him,  with  some  wild 
flowers,  and  once  let  him,  whom  you  so  love,  stoop 
and  kiss  the  cold,  cold  face  of  her  who  loved  him, 
oh,  so  tenderly. 

Widow.    And  you  love  him  as  he  loved  you  ? 

Billy.  As  you  love  him,  and  as  I  shall  love  him 
while  life  lasts,  my  sister  and  my  friend.  But  from 
him,  even  until  death,  this  secret  is  sacred  as  the 
secrets  of  the  grave. 

Widow.    As  you  will ;  sacred  as  the  grave. 

Billy.  And  now  good-night.  Tim  will  be  back 
soon.  No,  I  dare  not  enter  your  cabin  now.  Let 
them  still  believe  me  of  the  Danites.  I  hear  foot- 
steps, go!  Good  night.  (Exit  widow  into  cabin. 
Enter  Danites,  R.) 

Billy.    (L.)    The  Danites !    (Exits  R,  3.  E.) 

Hickman.  Keep  watch  down  the  trail.  Men 
will  be  passing  soon  to  and  from  the  tunnels  on  the 
night-watch.  We  must  not  be  seen.  Look  sharp. 
This  is  the  woman.  I  heard  the  boy  call  her  name 
— Nancy  Williams — as  I  leaned  from  the  cliff  there. 
The  work  must  be  done,  and  done  now.  (Tests 
knife,  and  cautiously  opens  door.) 

Carter.  Shoo!  Some  one  is  coming  down  the 
trail.    Out!    Back!    (Enter  widow.) 

Widow.  Some  one  opening  my  door.  Well, 
what  is  it  you  want,  sir? 

Hick.     You.     Your  time  has  come.     (Throws 

[31] 


THE  DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


light  of  lantern  in  her  face,  and  grasping  knife. 
Enter  Parson,  L.) 

Parson.  Hello!  Hello!  Now  what  are  you 
doin'  around  the  widder's  cabin,  eh?  Tears  to  me 
everybody  in  camp,  night  and  day's  a  hoverin'  round 
this  'ere  cabin  of  yourn,  widder.  Who  are  they? 
Say,  who  are  you  fellows  anyhow  ?  {Hick,  and  Car- 
ter retreat  R.  Parsons  following  them,  seizes  Hick., 
holds  him,  and  looks  long  and  hard  in  his  face.) 

Hick.  Well,  friend,  you'll  know  me  when  you 
see  me  again,  won't  you  ? 

Parson.  Yes,  I  will.  Yes,  I  will  know  you,  and 
know  you  in  a  way  that  you  will  remember,  if  ever 
I  see  you  hangin'  'round  this  little  woman's  cabin 
agin'.  Know  you  when  I  see  you?  Now,  you  just 
set  a  peg  thar,  and  remember  that  the  longest  day 
you  live  I'll  know  you,  you  bet. 

Hick.    Be  patient,  my  friend,  I  meant  no  offense. 

Parson.  Didn't  you,  though?  Well,  I'll  remem- 
ber you,  and  know  you  all  the  same  when  I  see  you. 
Who  are  you  fellows,  anyhow? 

Hick.  Only  Prospectors.  Good  night,  Sir. 
{Exit  both  R.)  ' 

Parson.  Prospectors,  eh?  Well  prospectors 
don't  prospect  at  midnight.  They're  ground-sluice 
robbers,  I'll  bet.  You  look  out  for  them  fellers, 
widder,  they're  on  the  steal.  {Aside  R.)  All  by 
herself ;  and  Sandy  sound  asleep.  Bet  I'll  never  get 
another  such  a  chance.  {To  widow.)  Pretty  late 
ain't  it  widder?     Pretty  fine  night,  but  pretty  late. 

Widow.  Yes!  late.  But  it  seems  to  me  nights 
like  this  were  not  made  for  sleep. 

Parson.  {Aside.)  Not  made  for  sleep;  but 
made  for  love.  O,  what  a  hint.  That's  what  she 
means.    Oh,  was  there  ever  anything  so  smart  as  a 

[32] 


THE  DANITES  IN   THE   SIERRAS 


smart  woman  in  such  things?  (Aloud.)  Ahem! 
No,  not  made  for  sleep.  You're  right  there,  widder. 
(Aside.)  Ain't  she  pretty  and  smart?  Ain't  she 
smart?  I'll  just  press  her  here  on  that  point. 
(Aloud.)      No,  these  moonlight  nights   were  not 

made  for  sleep,  but  for — for Now  what  were 

these  moonlight  nights  in  the  Sierras  made  for, 
widder  ? 

Widow.    For  meditation  and  prayer. 

Parson.  (Aside.)  Won't  somebody  please  set 
down  on  my  head.  This  is  the  end  of  the  Parson. 
(To  widow.)  Why,  widder,  you — you — I  under- 
stand now.  And  it's  Billy — ^but  to  have  you  love  a 
thing  like  Billy,  widder,  that  there's  been  so  much 
talk  and  secrets  about.  I  tell  you  to  beware  of  Billy. 
Beware  of  Billy.  He's  a  sneak ;  a  sneak.  A  Danite ! 
And  I'll  throttle  him  yet.  Yes,  he  is  a  Danite ;  and 
I  will  kill  him. 

Widow.  Parson,  for  shame!  You  asked  me 
if  you  could  do  me  a  favor  just  now ;   you  can. 

Parson.  Name  it !  And  if  it's  to  throw  him  over 
that  cliff,  I'll  do  it.    I'll  do  it. 

Widow.  No.  You  will  befriend  and  defend 
poor  little  Billy  Piper.    Do  it  with  your  life! 

Parson.  Oh,  widder,  anything  but  that.  Why 
he's  a  snake.  A  snake  in  the  grass.  He  has  put  you 
to  shame  before  all  the  camp.  All  the  camp  is 
talkin'  about  his  sneakin'  in  and  out  of  your  cabin, 
day  and  night,  and 

Widow.  You  insult  me!  (Going.)  And  now 
show  me  that  you  are  the  man  Sandy  is,  by  befriend- 
ing that  boy,  or  never  speak  to  me  again.  (Exit 
into  cabin.) 

Parson.  By  defending  that  boy !  That  boy  who 
seeks  to  ruin  her !    And  to  have  her  slam  the  door 

[33] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE    SIERRAS 


in  my  face.  O,  I  could  twist  his  neck  as  if  it  were 
a  wisp  of  straw.  Slam  your  door  in  my  face  like 
that?    I'll  be  revenged  on  you  and  on  him  if  ever 

I (Enter  Billy  R.  3.  E.  running  and  looking 

back.) 

Billy.    By  my  cabin !    I  dare  not  go  home ! 

Parson.  (Suddenly  confronts,  Billy  C.)  So 
youngster!  (Seising  him.)  Come  here!  (Pulls 
him  down  C.)  Come  here  with  me!  Now,  look 
here!  What  have  you  been  doin'  at  the  widder's? 
Do  you  hear?  Answer!  Say — I'll  just  pitch  you 
over  them  rocks  there,  and  break  your  infernal  slim 
neck — (Pulls  him  up,  run.)  Come  here!  Now 
you  tell  me  the  truth!  What  a'  you  been  doin'  at 
the  widder's?  Say!  (Shakes  him.)  Don't  you 
know  that  if  you  go  on  in  this  way,  you  will  fall  over 
this  bluff  some  night,  and  break  your  infernal  little 
neck?  Don't  you  know  that?  Speak!  you  boy — 
you  brat.  (Shaking  him.)  Well,  I'll  save  you  the 
trouble  of  slippin'  off  of  here;  yes,  the  boys  will 
like  it.  They'll  all  say,  they  knew  you'd  break  your 
neck  some  night.  Now  look  here,  sir !  You've  got 
just  one  minute  to  live;  to  say  what  you  want  to 
say,  quick.  When  that  flyin'  cloud  covers  that  'ere 
star  yonder,  you  die,  and  may  Gold  help  you — and 
me.  Speak  now  !  Come !  come !  speak  but  once  be- 
fore I — murder  you. 

Billy.  (Falling  on  knees,  hands  clasped.)  Please, 
Parson,  may  I  pray?  (Parson  lets  go;  staggers 
back;  Widow  appears  at  door  of  cabin  with  can- 
dle, shading  eyes.) 

Curtain. 

[  34  ] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


ACT  III. 


Scene:  Sandy's  cabin — Flowers  on  table,  curtains 
on  walls  and  at  window,  R.  C;  practical  door, 
L.  C;  -fire;  gun;  door,  R.  H.;  cradle;  widow 
discovered  rocking  cradle;  Capt.  Tommy  and 
Bunkerhill  sewing;   both  greatly  improved. 

BuNKERHiLL.  Well,  if  I  was  Billy,  I'd  take  the 
hint,  I  would,  and  leave  camp.  He  won't  fight;  he 
can't  work.    He's  got  no  spirit  for  nothin'. 

Capt.  Tommy.  Guess  we'd  better  'ave  let  Lim- 
ber and  Judge  shake  him  out  of  his  boots,  that  night, 
eh  ?    He's  no  good,  I  guess,  eh  ? 

Bunkerhill.  Yes,  but  it  ain't  in  me,  and  it 
ain't  in  you.  Tommy,  for  to  see  two  on  one.  The 
bottom  dog  in  the  fight,  that  captures  me.  But 
guess  Limber  and  Judge  were  right  when  they 
wanted  him  to  git. 

Capt.  Tommy.  Well,  what  is  he  anyhow?  Dan- 
ite  or  devil? 

Bunkerhill.  Can't  say,  Capt.  Tommy.  Mrs. 
Judge.    Beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Judge. 

Capt.  T.  All  right,  Mrs.  Tim,  'pology  is  accepted. 

Bunkerhill.  Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  I  don't 
know  whether  he's  Danite  or  devil.  But  I  do  know 
he's  no  man.  (Widow  starts.)  Why,  yes,  widder. 
And  the  sooner  you  know  it  the  better.  Why,  don't 
the  whole  camp  hate  and  despise  him?  You're  the 
only  friend  he's  got.  You  and  Sandy.  And  you're 
the  very  ones  he  hurts  the  most. 

Capt.  T.  Why  he's  just  a  ruinin'  of  your  charac- 
ter in  this  'ere  camp,  widder.  Society  must  be 
respected. 

[35] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


BuNKERHiLL.  Yes,  widdcr ;  we  ladies  can't 
afford  to  fly  into  the  face  of  society. 

Capt.  T.  Yes,  widder ;  only  last  night,  the  Judge 
he  says  to  me,  he  says,  says  he,  "now  that  I'm  a 
family  man,"  says  he,  "I  must  have  respect  for 
society," 

BuNKERHiLL.  O,  I  tcll  you,  I  wouldn't  fly  into 
the  face  of  society  for  nothin'  in  this  world.  (To 
Capt.  T.)  It  would  be  the  saddest  day  of  my  life 
when  I'd  have  to  cut  the  widder  for  the  sake  of 
society,  but  she  must  be  keerful. 

Widow.  And  why  should  all  men  hate  poor  little 
Billy  Piper  so? 

BUNKERHILL.  (To  Capt.  T.)  Shall  I  tell  her. 
Tommy  ? 

Capt.  T.    Yes,  tell  her.    Hit's  for  her  own  good. 

BUNKERHILL.  Well  then,  they  hates  him  so  be- 
cause you  loves  him  so. 

Widow.  Love  him?  Well,  yes,  I  do,  and  pity 
him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Oh,  if  we  but 
had  money,  gold,  plenty  of  gold,  Sandy  and  me,  we 
would  leave  here.  We  would  go  away  silently  and 
secretly  some  night,  to  another  land,  and  take  him 
away  out  of  it  all.    Yes,  I  do  love  him. 

Capt.  T.  (To  Bunker.)  Well,  that  just  fetches 
me.    What  will  society  say  to  that  ? 

BUNKERHILL.     The  butcher's  wife  will  cut  her. 

Capt.  T.  The  baker's  wife  turned  all  streaked 
and  striped  last  night  as  she  told  me  about  Billy 
comin'  here  so  much.    I  never ! 

BUNKERHILL.    Well,  /  ncver. 

Capt.  T.  Why,  the  new  Parson's  wife  won't 
even  look  this  .way. 

BuNKERHiLL.     Hcxccpt  when  she  goes  out  to 

[36] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


take  up  a  collection.  Capt.  Tommy,  Mrs.  Judge; 
beggin'  pardon,  Mrs.  Judge. 

Capt.  T.  Well,  if  she'd  a  married  the  old  Parson, 
I  tell  you,  ther'd  been  no  hangin'  round  of  Billy 
Piper  at  the  parsonage.  Why,  he'd  a  kicked  him 
out,  and  respected  society,  he  would. 

BuNKERHiLL.  Poor  Parson.  Wish  he  had  a  got 
her.  Why,  he's  all  broke  up.  He's  a  perfect  walkin' 
corpse.  Asks  always  'bout  the  widder  when  I  meets 
him  on  the  trail ;  tender  like ;  so  tender  like,  Capt. 
Tommy,  with  his  eyes  all  wet,  and  a  lookin'  to  the 
ground. 

Capt.  T.  Well,  now,  the  old  Parson's  not  a 
corpse,  I  guess.  Look  here,  I  seed  him  at  the  store, 
a  fixin'  of  his  irons ;  heelin'  himself  like  a  fightin' 
cock.  Yes,  he  did  look  powerful  pale.  But  the 
Judge  says  to  me,  last  night,  says  he,  "Mrs.  Judge, 
I  hearn  the  Parson's  bull  pup  bark" ;  that's  his  pis- 
tol, you  know.  Bunker.  And  the  Judge,  he  says  to 
me,  says  he,  "there's  goin'  to  be  a  row,"  And  the 
Judge,  he  says  to  me,  says  he,  "I  know  there's 
goin'  to  be  a  row,  because,  as  I  came  home,  I  heard 
the  Dutch  undertaker  hammerin'  away  like  mad." 
And  the  Judge,  he  says  to  me,  says  he,  "Mrs. 
Judge,  that  undertaker  is  a  good  business  man,  and 
a  very  obligin'  man;  he  allers  looks  ahead,  and 
when  he's  sure  there's  goin'  to  be  a  row  at  the 
Forks,  he  takes  the  size  of  his  man  and  makes  his 
coffin  in  adwance."  (Enter  Judge  and  Tim; 
dressed;  polite.) 

Judge.  Good  mornin',  madam ;  Mrs.  Sandy ;  good 
mornin'.  A  very  infusin'  sermon  last  Sunday,  Mrs. 
Sandy.  Sorry  you  was  not  out.  Musn't  neglect  the 
church,  Mrs.  Sandy.  Splendid  sermon  'bout — 'bout 
And  splendid  collection.    Took  up  a  damned 

[37] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


Splendid  collection.  Got  my  handkerchief  hemmed, 
Capt.  Tommy?  (Glasses;  to  table,  takes  up  baby 
garment;    Capt.  T.  hides  face.)     You  don't  mean 

to  say  that — that — that God  bless  you,  Tommy, 

God  bless  you.  Oh,  this  glorious  climate  of  Cali- 
fornia. Tim,  let's  take  our  wives  home  and  go  on 
a  tear.     (Arms  to  ladies.)     Good-bye,  widder. 

Capt.  T.  Good-bye,  widder.  And,  say,  widder, 
we  love  you,  but  be  careful  about  Billy  Piper,  won't 
you? 

BuNKERHiLL.  Widder,  that's  so;  we  loves  you. 
You  made  suthin'  of  us,  and  we'll  try  to  don't  forgit 
it.  But  there's  trouble  comin',  widder.  Cut  Billy, 
and  tell  Sandy  to  look  oujt  for  the  Parson. 

Judge.  Come,  my  family.  Oh,  this  glorious  cli- 
mate of  California.  (Exit  Judge,  Tim,  Capt.  T,  and 
Bunker,  L.  C.) 

Widow.  They  are  so  happy.  And  the  great  bald- 
headed  boy,  the  Judge,  is  the  happiest  of  all.  O, 
they  have  so  improved  the  poor  girls.  'Tis  love  that 
makes  the  world  go  round,  my  baby.  And  you,  my 
little  pet,  smiling  there,  I  wonder  what  these  Sierras 
hold  in  their  hearts  for  you?  And  I  wonder,  as  I 
look  in  your  rosebud  face,  what  manner  of  men  and 
women  will  grow  here  in  this  strong,  strange  land, 
so  new  from  the  Creator's  hand?  Shall  there  be 
born  under  the  burning  sun  of  the  Sierras  a  race  of 
poets?  Of  good  and  eloquent  men?  Or  men, 
mighty  for  ill?  These  are  your  mother's  thoughts, 
my  darling,  as  she  tries  to  fill  her  little  place  in  life 
and  do  her  duty  to  her  baby  and  to  her  husband. 
(Enter  Sandy;  gold  pan,  pick,  shovel;  pan  on 
table;  pick  and  shovel  by  door.)  Oh,  Sandy,  I  was 
just  thinking  of  you,  just  saying,  my  husband. 

Sandy.    My  wife !    And  the  baby  is  well  ? 

[38] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Widow.    Smiling,  Sandy. 

Sandy.  So  it  is;  smilin'  like  a  new  Spring 
mornin',  when  the  sun  leaps  up  a  laughin'  from  its 
bed.  Now  this  is  happiness.  This  *ere  is  the  edge  of 
God-land,  my  pretty.  I  think  if  I  should  go  on  and 
on  a  thousand  years,  a  hundred  thousand  miles,  my 
darlin',  I  wouldn't  get  nearer  to  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
that  the  preacher  tells  about,  than  I  am  now. 

Widow.  And  this  little  home  is  Paradise  to  you, 
as  it  is  to  me,  Sandy? 

Sandy.  Paradise!  It  is  the  best  part  of  Para- 
dise. It  is  the  warm  south  side  of  Paradise,  my 
darlin'.  But  there,  I  must  put  up  the  gold  in  the 
bag,  and  put  it  under  the  hearthstone  for  baby. 
(Cleaning  gold.) 

Widow.    If  we  only  had  plenty  of  it,  Sandy. 

Sandy.    My  pretty,  is  there  anything  you  want? 

Widow.    No,  Sandy.    Not  that  I  really  want. 

Sandy.  But  what  is  it,  my  pretty?  Now,  come, 
there's  a  cloud  over  your  face.  Don't  my  darlin', 
don't.  This  is  Paradise ;  and  the  new  preacher  tells 
us  that  never  a  cloud  or  a  rude  wind  crossed  the 
Garden  of  Eden.  Yonder  are  our  walls ;  the  white 
watch  towers  of  the  Sierras,  keeping  eternal  guard 
over  our  Garden  of  Eden  here  in  the  heart  of  the 
Sierras.    Now,  what  is  it? 

Widow.  Why  nothing  at  all,  Sandy.  Only  I 
was  thinking  this  morning  that  if  we  had  plenty 
of  gold,  a  great,  great  plenty  Sandy;  so  that  you 
had  so  much,  you  might  never  have  to  work  so  hard 
anymore,  that, — that 

Sandy.  Well  my  pretty?  O,  I  see.  You  would 
give  it  to  my  old  pard,  the  Parson.  That's  right; 
that's  good.  He's  goin'  away  and  will  need  it.  I'll 
make  him  take  this 

[39] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Widow.  No,  no,  Sandy.  He  is  not  going.  He 
is  mad,  desperate ;  and  will  do  you  harm  if  you  go 
near  him.  Do  not  speak  to  him.  Do  not  go  near 
him. 

Sandy.  Well  I  won't  then,  if  he's  mad  with  me, 
my  pretty.  No  sir'ee.  And  I'll  buckle  on  a  bull- 
dog, too.  (Buckles  on  and  tapping  pistol.)  Bark 
at  him,  boy.  Bark  at  him.  Bite  him  if  he  bothers 
us.  But  I  say,  what  is  this  you  want  with  gold? 
Take  all  there  is.  Take  it,  my  pretty,  and  do  as 
you  please  with  it.  Is  it  Washee  Washee  that  wants 
to  bring  out  some  more  of  his  seventy  cousins  ?  Or 
is  it  the  old  man  that  got  washed  through  the 
ground  sluice  ?  No ;  I  won't  ask  you ;  take  it.  For 
what  do  I  want  with  it  but  to  please  you?  What 
good  is  all  the  gold  in  the  Sierras  if  you  are  not 
satisfied  and  happy?  Say,  my  beauty,  do  you  know 
I  said  to  myself  to-day,  says  I :  *  *  *  The  heart 
of  woman  is  like  the  heart  of  our  Sierras;  some  find 
gold  there  a/nd  some  do  not;  much  depends  on  the 
prospector. 

Widow.  Now  that's  so,  Sandy ;  but  take  it  back 
Sandy ;  you  have  worked  too  hard  for  this,  for  me 
to  give  it  away  to  poor  little — (Shouts,  widow  to 
window,  R,  C.)    Why,  what  can  that  be,  Sandy? 

Sandy.    Is  it  the  Parson,  my  pretty  ? 

Widow.  Why  no,  it's  Billy  Piper !  And  the  boys 
howling  and  running  after  him!  Oh  Sandy!  (En- 
ter Billy,  breathless.) 

Billy.  (Behind  Sandy;  enter  mob)  Sandy! 
Sandy !  They  have  run  me  out  of  my  cabin.  They 
threaten  to  kill  me. 

Sandy.    Run  him  out  of  his  cabin? 

Tim.  Yes,  and  we'll  hang  him  to  the  nearest  tree ! 

Sandy.    Now  hold  up,  Tim !    And  tell  me  what's 

[40] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


he  done?  And  what  all  you  men  are  runnin'  after  a 
boy  like  that  for? 

All.    Bah ! 

Judge.    A  boy  like  that !    And  you  a  family  man  ? 

Tim.  Them  Danites  was  seen  a  sneakin'  about 
his  cabin  only  ten  minutes  ago.  And  that's  why  I 
say  run  him  out. 

Judge.    Yes,  I  say  git. 

All.    Yes,  run  him  out! 

Capt.  T.  Too  many  on  one,  Bunker.  I'm  goin' 
in  for  the  bottom  dog,  and  society  can  just  go  to  the 
devil.     {Throws  off  bonnet  and  rolls  up  sleeves.) 

Judge.  Now,  my  Capt.  Tommy,  just  think  what 
society 

Capt.  T.  Shut  up!  You  bald-headed  old  jack- 
ass !    I'm  just  goin'  in  on  this  fight,  bet  your  life. 

Bunkerhill.  Yes ;  we're  all  gettin'  too  dern'd 
respectable,  anyhow.     (Throws  hat.) 

Widow.     Sandy,  Sandy,  stand  by  Billy. 

All.    He's  a  Danite! 

Sandy.  Stand  back!  I  don't  care  what  he  is, 
or  what  he  has  done.  He  has  come  to  me  for  pro- 
tection. Whyj  if  the  meanest  Digger  Injin  runs  to 
another  Injin  for  protection,  won't  he  protect  him? 
Well,  now,  this  boy  is  as  safe  here  as  if  he  were 
my  own  kid. 

Billy.  O  thank  you,  Sandy !  Thank  you  with 
all  my  poor  broken  heart.  But  it  won't  be  for  long 
Sandy.  It  won't  be  for  long,  and  then  you  shall 
know  all.    She  will  tell  you  all.    (Exit  L.  C.) 

Sandy.  She!  She  will  tell  me  all?  Why  this 
mystery  ?    Why  this 

Widow.  Sandy,  what  uo  you  mean?  Can  you 
not  trust  your  wife? 

[41] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Sandy.  I  can  trust  you.  I  do  and  I  will  to  the 
end  of  my  life  and  of  yours. 

Judge.  That's  right.  Family  man  myself;  trust 
your  wife.  Now  you  see,  Sandy,  the  boys  been 
askin'  me  to  make  a  sort  of  explanation  of  this  'ere 
intrudin'  into  your  house  like  this  'ere.  You  see, 
Sandy,  we  was  makin'  up  a  purse  for — for  your 
family.  And  as  the  boys  had  never  seed  a  baby, 
and — and  as  I — as  we  wanted  to  see  how  they  look, 
we  had  concluded  to  call  en  massy.  But  just  as  we 
was  a  comin'  down  the  trail  we  seed  two  Danites 
skulkin'  about  Billy  Piper's  cabin.  And  on  the 
spur  the  boys  went  for  him.  But  we  brought  the 
purse  all  the  same,  and  here  it  is  (Purse  to  Tim.) 

Tim.  As  the  pardner  of — of  my  pardner,  I — I 
have  been  appointed  a  committee  of  this  'ere  delega- 
tion to  deliver  this  'ere  dust  and  make  the  speech 
for  the  occasion.    Widder (Breaks  down.) 

Judge.     (Pushing  himself  forward.)     Widder  in 

— in    this —    glorious    climate    of    California 

(Breaks  down.) 

Tim.  Widder,  this  'ere  bag  of  gold  what  you 
now  behold;  this -purse  of  pure  bright  gold,  dug 
from  out  the — the  Sierras.  This  purse  of  gold 
widder,  is — is — is — yourn. 

Widow.  Mine,  mine?  All  mine  to  do  what  I 
will  with  it? 

Tim.  Yourn,  widder,  all  yourn.  Yourn  to  git 
up  and  git,  out  of  this  hole  in  the  ground,  to  go 
back  to  the  States  and  live  like  a  Christian,  as  you 
are,  and  git  away  from  all  that's  bad  here  in  this 
hole  in  the  ground,  like  a  wild  beast  in  a  carawan. 

All.    Bully  for  Tim! 

Judge.  And  now  let  the  boys  see  your  family, 
Sandy. 

[42] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Sandy.  Here,  Washee  Washee,  give  it  to  Mrs. 
Sandy  and  set  up  the  bottles  for  the  boys.  (  Washee, 
who  has  been  feeding  baby  by  fire,  with  bottle  and 
spoon,  gives  baby  bottles,  etc.    Widow  sits,  C.) 

All.    Oh!    Oh!    what  is  that?    The  little  cuss! 

Tim.  Little  thing  to  make  sich  a  big  row,  eh, 
Sandy  ? 

Washee.  He  Judgee  babee,  baldee  headee.  He 
no  Sandee. 

Tim.  You  speak  to  the  boys.  Judge;  that  effort 
of  mine  exhausted  me.  (Judge,  attitude  for  speech; 
to  table,  drinks,  and  again  striking  attitude;  drinks 
again. ) 

Judge.  Gentlemen  of — of  the  committee !  Fellow 
citizens,  this,  what  you  now  behold  is — is — (stops 
and  widow  whispers  in  ear.)  This  which  you  now 
behold  before  you  is — is  an — an  infant.  The  first 
white  born  baby  citizen  ever  born  in  these  Sierras. 
The  first,  but  not  the — the — (Capt.  T.  stops  him.) 
Feller  citizens,  this  little  infant  sleeping  here  in  it's 
mother's  arms,  with  the  mighty  snow-peaks  of  the 
Sierras  about  us ;  this  innocent  little  sleepin'  infant, 
which  has  been  born  to  us  here  gentlemen,  shows 
us  that — well,  in  fact  shows  us — shows  us  what  can 
be  done  in  this  glorious  climate  of  California.  (All 
shout  and  Hie  past,  and  look  at  baby.) 

Tim.  (Going.)  Well  come  boys,  I've  got  a 
family  myself  and  must  be  lookin'  after  mine. 
(Exit  L.  C.  Re-enter.)  Sandy!  Sandy!  Heel 
yourself!  The  Parson!  The  Parson  with  his  bull 
pups — shootin'  irons. 

Widow.     Oh,  Sandy!    Sandy! 

Sandy.  (Hand  on  pisto^.)  Stand  back,  boys, 
and  let  him  come.  Quiet,  quiet,  my  girl.  (Parson 
enters    hand    behind;     down,    and    walks    quickly 

[43] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


toward  Sandy;   Sandy  raises  pistol;  Parson,  after 
emotion.) 

Parson.  I've  been  a  waitin'  to  see  you,  Sandy, 
a  waitin'  a  long  time. 

Sandy.    Stop ! 

Parson.  Sandy  I'm  goin'  away  from  here.  I 
can't  stand  it  any  longer.  Your  cabin  here  will  be 
too  small  now,  so  I  want  you  to  promise  me  to  take 
care  of  the  parsonage  till  I  come  back. 

Sandy.    The  parsonage? 

Parson.  Yes,  that's  what  the  boys  call  my  cabin. 
The  parsonage.  You'll  move  in  there,  at  once.  It's 
full  of  good  things  for  winter.  You'll  take  my 
cabin,  and  all  that's  there  in  it,  I  say  you'll  take  it  at 
once.  Promise  me  that.  (Handing  key.)  There's 
the  key.    Now  say  you  will. 

Sandy.    Yes,  I  will. 

Parson.  It  was  your  luck,  Sandy,  to  git  her. 
Good-bye,  old  pard.  Widder — I — what!  You 
shake  hands  with  me,  the  poor,  old,  played  out  Par- 
son, after  I  broke  my  word  with  you!  Widder! 
God  bless  you !  Yes,  yes !  God  bless  you  both ! 
(Exit.) 

Sandy.  Poor,  honest  old  Parson.  Thare's  many 
a  worse  man  than  he  in  mighty  high  places,  boys. 

Tim.  (At  door  looking  up.)  Yes,  Sandy,  and  he 
is  climbing  for  a  high  place  now. 

Sandy.  What!  Gone  already!  And  it's  dark 
and  snowin'. 

Tim.  Started  up  the  steep  mountain  right  here. 
A  climbin'  and  climbin'  right  straight  up  the  moun- 
tain ;  as  if  he  was  a  climbin'  for  the  mornin'  star. 

Sandy.  And  may  he  reach  it,  and  find  rest  at 
last,  Tim. 

All.    And  find  rest  at  last. 
[44] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Tim.  But  Sandy,  you  must  move  into  the  Parson- 
age. Yes,  you  must.  You  see,  you  promised  it.  And 
then  it  takes  a  pretty  big  cabin  to  hold  a  pretty  small 
baby.  (All  laugh  and  gather  around  table  and 
drink.) 

Judge.    Well,  one  more  boys,  to — ^to 

Tim.  To  it.  But  come,  boys,  it's  gettin'  dark. 
(All  drink  and  exit  C.) 

Widow.    My  baby!    What  a  name,  Sandy.    It! 

Sandy.  Poor,  poor  old  Parson.  It's  a  hard 
world  on  some  of  us,  widder. 

Widow.  It  is  hard  on  some,  those  who  cannot 
work  and  are  all  the  time  persecuted  and  misunder- 
stood. Now  Sandy,  dear,  do  you  know  who  I  am 
going  to  give  that  gold  to  which  the  miners  gave  me 
just  now?  Come,  guess.  Can't  you  guess,  Sandy, 
dear? 

Sandy.  Why,  no,  widder.  I  can't  guess.  To 
who? 

Widow.    Why  to  Billy  Piper. 

Sandy.  (Starting.)  To  Billy  Piper!  No.  no, 
not  to  him.  You  know  not  what  you  say.  You 
know  not  what  you  ask  of  me  to  bear.  You  know 
not  what  you  are  asking  me  to  bear,  my  wife.  That 
boy?  Why  now  that  he  is  once  out  of  my  cabin  I 
will  kill  him  as  I  would  a  rattlesnake  wherever  I 
can  find  him.  (Enter  Tim,  running  and  breathless, 
L.  C.) 

Tim.  Sandy!  Sandy!  The  Danites!  Your  gun 
Sandy!  The  two  Danites  have  just  left  Billy 
Piper's  cabin,  their  dark  lanterns  in  their  hands  and 
are  coming  this  way  through  the  Chapparal.  Quick 
your  gun !    Billy's  in  with  them. 

Sandy.  (Reaching  gun.)  Billy  Piper  in  with 
them !  Danite  or  devil,  this  shall  be  the  end  of  him. 
[45] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


Widow.  Sandy,  you  will  not,  you  shall  not  harm 
him.  You  shall  not  leave  this  cabin  till  you  prom- 
ise you  will  not  harm  him.  See,  Sandy,  see,  on  my 
knees  I  beg  of  you.  Never  before  on  my  knees  to 
aught  but  my  maker  Sandy,  yet  you  see  me  here 
now  on  my  knees  to  you. 

Sandy.    You  take  from  me  my  life  and  my  honor. 

Widow.  Sandy,  Sandy !  Do  not  be  so  blind.  It 
is  to  save  your  soul. 

Sandy.    What ! 

Widow.  It  is  to  save  your  soul  from  the  stain  of 
innocent  blood.  Will  you  not  believe  her  whom  you 
promised  to  trust  to  the  end  of  your  life,  and  of 
hers? 

Sandy.  Yes,  yes !  I  ccm  and  I  do  trust  you.  I 
will  not  harm  him. 

Widow.  O  brave,  generous  Sandy.  But  I  ask 
more  still.  Promise  me  that  you  will  protect  him. 
Yes,  protect  him  as  you  would  protect  me  with  this 
strong  right  arm,  Sandy. 

Sandy.    Why,  widder,  I 

Widow.  O  Sandy,  promise  me,  promise  me.  I 
feel  that  something  dark  and  dreadful  is  about  to 
happen.  I  see  him  lying  dead  in  his  innocent  blood 
with  no  one  to  pity,  to  pray  for,  or  to  understand. 
Oh  promise  me  Sandy,  that  whatever  happens,  you 
will  be  his  friend  and  defender  to  the  end. 

Sandy.    I  promise. 

Widow.    Swear  it. 

Sandy.    I  swear  it.     (Exit  with  Tim.) 

Widow.  The  Danites  here,  and  on  his  track! 
Oh  this  is  too  dreadful  to  believe.  {Noises,  L.) 
What  is  that?  It  may  be  poor  Billy  now  trying  to 
find  his  way  to  my  door,  in  the  dark  and  cold.  I 
will  go  find  him,  help  him,  save  him.     {Snatches 

[46] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


Up  candle.)     Lie  still  my  baby.     (Ex.  L.  hastily. 
Enter  Billy,  C,  cold  and  snow.) 

Billy.  It  is  a  fit  night  for  the  bloody  deeds  of 
the  Danites.  But  I  must  not  stay  here.  Where  can 
she  be !  I  must  see  her,  and  then  fly,  fly,  fly !  {Sees 
cradle.)  Oh  she's  not  far  off.  {Kneels  by  cradle. 
Enter  widow.     Very  dark  stage.) 

Widow.  Why  how  dark  it  has  grown!  The 
wind  has  blown  out  my  candle  too.  I  left  some 
matches  here  somewhere.  {Feels  about,  comes  to 
cradle  and  finds  Billy.)  Billy!  You  here!  But 
Sandy  must  not  see  you  here  now.  Quick!  hide 
here;  I  hear  some  one.  {Hides  Billy  behind  cur- 
tain, and  down  stage.  Door  opens  softly.  Danites 
enter  and  come  stealthily  down  stage.) 

Hickman.  I  saw  her  enter  at  that  door,  not  a 
minute  since.  She  mu^t  be  here.  {Sees  widow.) 
Ah,  there!  {Hickman  conceals  lantern;  advances 
on  widow  from  behind  with  knife  and  strikes  her; 
then  child.  Widow  screams  and  dies  as  crowd 
rushes  in.  Danites  exit  unseen,  L.  H.  Sandy  and 
Capt.  Tommy  bend  over  widow.) 

Capt.  Tommy.  She  is  dead!  Murdered  in  cold 
blood! 

Sandy.  Dead !  My  wife  dead !  Oh,  has  the  sun 
gone  down  forever?    Dead?    Dead? 

Tim.  Yes!  {Pointing  to  Billy.)  And  there  is 
her  murderer. 

Judge.     Hang  him  to  the  cabin  loft. 

All.    Hang  him !    Hang  him !    Hang  him ! 

Sandy.     No,  you  shall  not  hang  him.     {Springs 
between  as  they  attempt  to  seize  Billy.)    I  promised 
that  poor,  poor,  dead  woman  there  to  defend  this 
boy,  and  I'll  do  it,  or  die  right  here. 
Curtain. 

[47] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


ACT    IV. 


Scene — Old  mining  camp.  Moss-grown  cabin  R. 
Set  tree  L.  Sunrise  on  the  Sierras.  Lapse  of 
three  years.  Enter  Limber  Tim,  L.,  with 
Judge,  older  and  better  dressed. 

Tim.  Warn't  down  to  the  saloon  last  night  and 
don't  know  the  news,  eh? 

Judge.  No,  no.  Since  I've  come  to  be  a  family- 
man,  I'm  sort  of  exclusive;  got  to  set  an  example 
for  my  family.    But  what's  this  news? 

Tim.    The  Parson's  back. 

Judge.  What!  Him  that  loved  the  widder  so? 
No!  Impossible!  Why  he  went  away  North  to 
Frazer  River;  got  smashed  up  in  a  mine  there  I 
hear;  washed  through  a  flume  and  his  limbs  all 
broke  up  till  he  had  as  many  joints  as  a  sea  crab. 
O,  no,  he  can't  never  get  back  here. 

Tim.  But  he  is  back.  And  the  sorriest  wreck, 
too,  that  ever  you  seed,  I  reckon.  Ought  to  have 
seed  him  and  Sandy  meet.  Cried  like  babies,  both 
on  'em.  Come  back  here  to  be  buried  up  on  the 
hill  there,  he  says. 

Judge.  Well,  well,  well!  The  Parson  wasn't 
bad,  Tim;  he  was  about  the  best  of  the  old  boys 
of  forty-nine,  'ceptin  always  Sandy.  And  Sandy, 
after  the  murder  of  the  widder  and  his  kid — well 
he's  all  broke  up  body  and  mind.  Spec'  he's 
'bout  as  near  gone  up  the  flume  as  the  Parson 
is.  But  I  must  get  round  and  see  how  Billy  Piper 
is  this  mornin'.  The  school  master,  what's  boardin' 
'round,  came  home  by  his  cabin  here,  and  didn't  see 
him  at  all  last  night;  but  Tim,  he  seed  a  black  cat 
a  sittin'  in  the  door  a  washin'  of  its  face.    It's  a  bad 

[48] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


sign  when  you  see  a  black,  Capt.  Tommy,  my  wife, 
Missus  Judge,  says.  Guess  that  boy's  pretty  sick. 
(Going.) 

Tim.  (Aside.)  That  boy.  'Pears  to  me  that 
varmint  won't  never  grow  to  be  a  man.  And  he 
twists  his  wife  and  my  wife  right  around  his  cussed 
little  fingers,  and  makes  'em  look  after  him.  Well, 
Judge  can  look  after  him,  cussed  if  I  will.  (To 
Judge.)  O,  I  say,  Judge;  there  was  two  others 
came  to  camp  last  night,  too. 

Judge.    Two  others?    Who? 

Tim.  Don't  know  'zactly.  Quartz  speculators, 
they  say:   Mormon  elders,  I  say. 

Judge.  Mormon  elders !  Bet  a  dog  skin  they're 
Danites.  But  so  long;  must  look  after  Billy  and 
get  back  to  my  family.  (Going  L.  3  E.,  meets 
Hickman  and  Carter  disgtiised.  They  shake  hands 
and  converse  up  stage.) 

Tim.  (Solus.)  Hello!  Here's  them  Quartz 
speculators  now,  and  Judge  shakin'  hands  and  jist 
a  talkin'.  'Spec  he's  tryin  to  impress  them  with 
the  glorious  climate  of  California.  Guess  I'll  go 
back  down  to  the  **howlin'  wilderness."  Judge  will 
be  powerful  dry  time  he  gets  there,  if  he  keeps  on 
talkin'  like  that.     (Exit  L.  1.) 

Hickman.  (Coming  down  stage.)  And  so  you 
are  a  family  man  and  your  wife  was  one  of  the  first 
families  of  the  Sierras? 

Judge.  Family  man;  yes,  sir;  and  my  wife  is 
one  of  the  very  first  families.  The  very  first.  That 
is,  she  and  Mrs.  Limber  Tim.  Mr.  Limber  Tim's 
member  of  the  Legislature  now,  wife,  family  name 
Bunkerhill,  of  the  Bunkerhills  of  Boston.  Yes,  my 
wife  and  his  wife,  too,  trace  family  clean  back  to 

[49] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Boston,  sir.  Yes,  proud  to  say  I'm  a  family  man, 
sir. 

Hickman.  But  this  widow  the  miners  spoke  of 
as  one  of  the  first  settlers  ?  She  who  came  as  a  sort 
of  missionary.    She  here  yet? 

Judge.  Dead.  Buried  up  yonder,  sir,  with  her 
baby.    First  baby  born  in  the  Sierras,  sir. 

Hick.  Dead,  eh?  Fever?  Natural  death,  or 
accident  ? 

Judge.  No,  sir !  Neither  natural  death  nor  acci- 
dent. No,  sir!  But  murder!  Why,  that  was  the 
pitifullest  thing;  and  it  was  the  meanest  murder 
that  ever  happened,  I  reckon.  The  boys  at  first 
thought  it  might  be  Sandy ;  for  he  was  mad  because 
of  Billy  Piper,  that  night.  And  then  the  boys 
thought  it  might  be  Billy,  because; — well,  because 
they  didn't  like  him,  never  did,  and  never  will,  I 
guess.  But  when  they  came  to  examine  Sandy, 
there  was  no  blood  on  the  knife  he  had  in  his  belt. 
And,  as  to  Billy,  well,  he  had  no  knife  at  all. 

Carter.     Why,  we  heard  about  this  last  night. 

Judge.  Dare  say;  dare  say;  may  be  the  miners 
talked  about  it  last  night.  They  don't  forget  it. 
You  bet. 

Carter.    Mother  and  child  found  murdered  ? 

Hick.  And  no  trace  of  the  murderers  was  ever 
found  ? 

Judge.  None.  It's  the  queerest  case  that  ever 
was,  I  reckon.  For  whatever  beast  or  devil  could 
murder  a  little  baby  like  that,  asleep  and  helpless? 
Why !  Well  sir,  since  I've  come  to  be  a  family  man, 
sir — if  I  should  ever  find  a  man  that  murdered  a 
baby — sir — as  judge  of  this  'ere  camp,  I'd  hang 
him  first  and  try  him  afterwards. 

[50] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Hick.  Yes,  yes.  That's  all  right.  But  this  boy 
Billy;  he  here  still? 

Judge.  There's  his  cabin.  Same  old  cabin  been 
in  for  years ;  the  same  one  the  Danites  killed  three 
fellers  in.  Pretty  sick,  too,  I  guess.  Wife  told  me 
to  drop  in,  see  how  he  is.  You'll  excuse  me.  Must 
go  in  and  see  the  boy  and  get  back  to  my  family. 
(Exit  into  cabin.) 

Hick.  (To  Carter.)  That  boy  is  Nancy 
Williams ! 

Carter.  Well,  and  if  it  is,  she's  dying,  they  say. 
Can't  you  wait  till  nature  does  the  work  for  you  ? 

Hick.  Though  that  boy  should,  by  nature,  die 
to-morrow,  our  duty  is  to  slay  to-day. 

Carter.  You  seem  to  thirst  for  blood.  A  wife 
and  babe  dead  at  our  hands  will  cry  for  revenge  yet. 
Make  no  more  mistakes  like  that.  If  this  should  not 
be  she 

Hick.  It  is  she !  There  shall  be  no  second  mis- 
take. Look  here.  (Takes  out  small  Testament.) 
Yesterday,  I  saw  this  boy's  face,  as  he  sat  reading 
up  yonder,  by  his  mine;  our  eyes  met  as  I  stood 
over  him.  His  lips  trembled  with  fear,  and  his  eyes 
fell.  He  remembered  the  time,  on  the  Plains,  years 
ago,  when  we  were  commissioned  to  slay  the  last  of 
the  Williams'.  I  say  that  boy  is  the  last  of  the 
family.     I  know  it. 

Carter.  Then,  I  say,  you  must  do  the  murder 
yourself,  if  it  is  to  be  done  on  such  slender  evidence 
as  your  word. 

Hick.  It  is  not  to  be  done  on  slender  evidence. 
Look  here!  Frightened,  he  let  this  fall  and  slunk 
away. 

Carter.    A  little,  old  Testament.    Well? 

[SI] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


Hick.  The  boy  was  reading  this  as  I  appeared 
and  spoke  to  him. 

Carter.  Well,  he  might  read  something  worse 
than  a  Testament. 

Hick.  But,  look  here!  On  the  fly  leaf.  Read 
this  dim  and  faded  dedication.  "To  Nancy  Wil- 
liams,   FROM    HER   AFFECTIONATE   MOTHER,    NaNCY 

Williams,  Carthage,  Missouri,  1850. 

Carter.  Too  true!  Too  true!  He  must  die. 
But  not  here.  Give  him  a  chance  to  fly.  It  is  not 
as  safe  as  it  was  when  we  were  here  before.  The 
Vigilantes ! 

Hick.  Ha !  ha !  I  have  thought  of  all  that.  The 
Vigilantes  shall  be  for  us.  They  will  be  made  to 
accuse  him  of  the  widow's  death.  Did  the  Judge 
not  say  he  is  suspected? 

Carter.  Yes,  yes.  Let  them  then  accuse  and 
hang  him.  But  see,  the  door  opens.  He  is  coming 
from  the  cabin. 

Hick.  Til  back  till  that  man  is  gone,  and  you 
go  stir  up  the  Vigilantes.  Tell  them  he  murdered 
the  widow  and  her  child.  Til  console  him  with  this. 
(Lifts  Testament.-  Exit  Carter,  L.  Enter  Billy 
from  cabin,  R,  supported  by  Judge,  who  seats  him 
by  the  door.    Hick,  up  stage,  behind  tree,  L.) 

Judge.  Now  don't  break  up  here,  just  as  the 
birds  begin  to  sing  and  the  leaves  come  out.  I'll 
send  my  family  'round  to  cheer  you. 

Billy.  You  are  so  kind.  Do  send  her;  and  the 
children,  too.  And  please  won't  you  let  them  stay? 
Let  them  stay  all  day.  Yes,  and  all  night.  O,  all 
the  time,  always. 

Judge.  Why  now,  don't  tremble  like  that.  I'll — 
I'll  send  my  family  'round.  Why,  it's  the  sweetest 
day  that  ever  was  in  this  glorious  climate  of  Cali- 

[52] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE    SIERRAS 


fornia.  (Aside.)  O,  I  can't  bear  to  see  a  body  cry. 
I'll  go  and  send  'round  my  family.     (Going  L.) 

Billy.  And  you  won't  be  long?  You  won't 
leave  me  long?    You  will  not? 

Judge.  Why,  no,  Billy.  I'll  send  my  family  right 
'round. 

Billy.  And  Sandy.  You  will  tell  Sandy  to 
come,  will  you  not?  I  have  kept  away  from  him, 
and  he  from  me,  all  this  time;  ever  since  she,  and 
— and  the  baby  died.  But,  now  you  will  bring  him. 
For  I  feel  that  the  sands  of  my  life  are  almost  run. 
My  feet  touch  the  dark  waters  of  death.  I  hear 
the  ocean  of  Eternity  before  me. 

Judge.  (Takes  out  handkerchief  and  going,  L.) 
Confound  it!  This  bright  sun  on  the  snow  hurts 
my  eyes. 

Hick.  (Coming  from  behind  tree,  and  speaking 
to  Judge  aside.)  Ah,  going?  I've  been  thinking. 
Judge,  about  that  murder  of  the  widow.  A  very 
remarkable  case.  And  do  you  know,  I  have  a 
theory?  Yes.  It's  that  boy.  No,  don't  start. 
What's  the  matter  with  him  now?  Conscience! 
Conscience  stricken !  Of  course  it's  very  sad.  The 
idea  is  not  mine.  I  got  it  from  the  miners  last  night. 
If  the  boy  wasn't  sick,  they'd  hang  him  now.  As 
for  Sandy,  poor  man,  he  is  certain  the  boy  did  it. 
My  friend  has  gone  down  to  lay  his  opinion  before 
the  camp.  For  my  part,  I  am  very  sorry  for  the  boy. 

Judge.    Well,  now,  'tween  you  me,  I  think 

(Aside.)  But  if  my  family,  Capt.  Tommy,  was  to 
hear  me— O  Lord!  (To  Hick.)  But  I'll  go  and 
send  'round  my  family. 

Hick.  Yes.  Meantime,  while  you  are  gone,  I 
will  offer  him  consolation.  (Exit  Judge,  L.  2.  E. 
Hick,  approaches  Billy  from  behind,  and  taps  shotU- 

[53] 


THE   DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


der.)  Beg  pardon,  but  is  this  yours?  A  little 
Testament  I  picked  up  where  you  sat  reading  yes- 
terday.   Is  it  yours  ? 

Billy.  Yes,  yes.  Oh,  thank  you.  It  is  mine; 
given  me  by  my  mother 

Hick.  Yes.  I  thought  it  was  yours ;  I  saw  your 
name  on  the  fly-leaf.  No  mistake  about  it,  I  sup- 
pose?   That  is  your  name! 

Billy.  {Looks  up  and  sees  face;  starts.)  No, 
no,  no !    Not  my  name.    No,  no,  no ! 

Hick.  Well,  I  think  it  is  yours,  and  you  had  bet- 
ter keep  it;  and  read  it,  too.  You  will  not  live 
long.  {Aside  and  going,)  Condemned  out  of  your 
own  mouth!  Now  to  make  them  beHeve  that  this 
is  the  murderer,  and  the  last  seed  of  this  cursed  tree 
is  uprooted.    {Exit  L.) 

Billy.  {Rising,  and  wildly.)  At  last!  My  time 
has  come  at  last !  Over  her  grave  they  have  reached 
me  at  last ;  and  it  no  longer  lifts  between  me  and  a 
dreadful  death  at  these  men's  hands.  Fly!  Fly! 
But  where?  And  how?  {Staggers  and  leans 
against  cabin  for  support.)  I  have  no  strength  to 
fly!  I  have  no  heart  or  will.  All,  all,  ends  here! 
I  must  die  here!  Now!  That  knife!  That  knife 
that  entered  her  heart,  that  pierced  the  baby's  breast, 
dripping  with  its  mother's  blood!  Oh!  {Falls  at 
cabin  door.  Enter  Parson,  dragging  a  leg,  old  and 
broken  up,  L.  i.  E.  Billy  starts  up  and  about  to 
enter  cabin.) 

Billy.  They  come!  They  come!  O,  will  not 
Sandy  help  me  now? 

Parson.    Billy  Piper,  no.    Don't — don't  go. 

Billy.  Why,  who  are  you?  And  what  do  you 
want  here? 

[54] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Parson.  Have  a  few  years  then  made  such  a 
change  in  me? 

Billy.    The  Parson! 

Parson.  Yes,  the  Parson.  Come  back  to  the 
Forks  to  die. 

Billy.    To  die? 

Parson.  Yes.  To  die,  and  lay  my  bones  by  the 
side  of  hers,  up  yonder  on  the  hill. 

Billy.    And  you  loved  her  so  ? 

Parson.  (Half  falls  to  seat  on  log.)  Loved  her 
so  ?  Can't  you  understand,  that  when  a  man  like  me 
loves,  he  loves  but  once,  and  but  one  thing  in  all 
this  world? 

Billy.  O,  yes,  I  understand.  For  I,  too,  loved 
her.  Parson. 

Parson.  (Starting  up,  and  crosses.)  Yes,  you 
loved  her,  too.  But  how?  To  put  her  to  shame; 
to  make  her  the  mockery  and  shame  of  the  camp; 
to  hide  away  in  her  cabin  like  a  spotted  house-snake ; 
to  creep  there  like  a  reptile  warmed  to  life  by  her 
hearth-stone  in  winter,  and  then  sting  her  to  death 
after  she  warmed  you  into  life. 

Billy.    And  do  you  think  I  ever  harmed  her? 

Parson.  Ever  harmed  her?  Ever  harmed  her? 
She  is  dead  and  beyond  the  reach  of  word  or  deed. 
A  few  more  days  and  I  shall  meet  her.  But  here, 
standing  here  on  the  edge  of  the  dark  river,  I  tell 
you,  you  murdered  her. 

Billy.    I  ?    Great  heavens !    What  do  you  mean ! 

Parson.  I  mean  what  they  say  down  there,  now, 
this  morning.  Yes,  they  are  saying  it  now.  No, 
don't  start,  or  run  away.  I  am  powerless  to  harm 
or  to  help  now.  But  I,  when  I  heard  that,  that 
you  murdered  her  that  night,  I  hobbled  up  here;  I 
wanted  this  revenge  before  they  came.  I  wanted 
[55] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE    SIERRAS 


to  see  you,  to  tell  you  that  while  I  gave  her  all  that 
I  had,  and  climbed  that  mountain  in  the  storm,  and 
went  forth  to  begin  life  over,  a  broken  man,  you 
stayed  here,  a  Danite,  to  take,  first,  her  good  name, 
and  then  her  life,  her  baby's  life,  and  Sandy's  life, 
and  now  my  life,  too. 

Billy.  {Starts,  staggers  forward,  lifts  hand  with 
Testament.)  Parson,  hear  me!  And  look  in  my 
face!  Do  you  not  see  the  dark  shadow  of  the 
Angel's  wings  that  are  to  waft  my  soul  away  ?  Oh, 
I,  too,  am  sadly  broken.  And  to-day,  to-night, 
maybe  this  very  hour,  from  somewhere,  a  hand  will 
strike  to  lay  me  low  in  death.  We  stand  beside  the 
dark  river  together. 

Parson.  Whif,  boy,  you  tremble.  Your  hand  is 
cold  and  helpless.    And  you  are  not  guilty? 

Billy.  Guilty?  Do  you  see  this?  The  last,  the 
only  gift  of  my  poor  murdered  mother,  who  died  by 
the  Danites'  hands. 

Parson.  Why,  you!  You  not  a  Danite?  Then 
swear  by  the  book;  swear  by  the  book  that  you 
never  did  her  harm  by  word  or  deed. 

Billy.  {Falling- on  knees  and  lifting  hook.)  By 
the  holy  book  and  by  my  mother's  memory,  I  swear ! 

Parson.  Why,  what  is  this?  The  boy  tells  the 
truth !  The  boy  is  honest  and  true.  Some  devilish 
work  is  against  him,  and  I  will  stand  by  him.  I'll 
stand  by  you,  boy.  You  are  true  as  the  stars  in 
heaven.    I  know  it — I  know  it.    I'll  meet  them.    I'll 

face  and  fight  them  all,  all  as  I  did {half  falls,) 

no,  no,  not  as  I  did.  I'm  on  the  down  grade  and 
can't  reach  the  brake.  But  stand  up,  boy,  and  be 
strong.  You  are  young  yet,  and  the  world  is  all 
before  you.  And  while  I  live,  you'll  find  a  friend  in 
me.  Yes,  in  the  old  Parson,  to  the  last  drop  of 
[56] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE    SIERRAS 


blood.  Yes,  yes.  I'll  die  right  here  by  your  side 
when  they  come.  Don't  you  be  skeered,  Billy. 
When  they  come,  I'll  come,  too,  and  be  your  friend 
to  the  last  bone  and  muscle  in  the  old  Parson's  body. 
(Leads  Billy  to  seat  on  log  by  cabin,  and  exit,  R. 
I.E.) 

Billy.  A  friend  at  last !  O,  then  there  is  hope. 
I  may  at  last  escape  from  this  and  again  be  strong 
and  well.  O,  thank  Heaven  for  one  friend  at  least. 
But  I  am  so  afraid!  {Enter  Hick,  and  Carter, 
L.  2.  E.) 

Hick.  You  shall  see  and  be  satisfied.  The  Vigil- 
antes are  gathering  and  will  be  here.  We  have  only 
to  say  that  he  has  confessed  the  murder  to  us,  and 
the  work  is  done.  {Crosses,  taps  Billy  on  shoulder.) 
I  have  come  back  to  console  you.  We  will  talk  over 
the  holy  little  book,  which  your  mother  gave  you 
before  she  died.  You  see  you  will  not  live  long. 
{Half  exposes  knife.) 

Billy.  No,  no,  no!  Not  with  the  knife!  No! 
Oh,  no,  no.  See!  I  am  but  a  woman,  a  poor 
weak  girl. 

Hick.  {To  Carter.)  You  see.  {To  Billy.) 
Yes,  we  have  come  to  offer  you  the  consolation  of 
religion. 

Billy.  My  God!  My  God!  Why  is  this  cup 
given  me  to  drink? 

Carter.  Here !  Some  one  comes !  {Pulls  Hick, 
aside.)  Quick.  {Both  exit,  L.  2.  Enter  Sandy, 
R.  u.  E.) 

Sandy.  Why,  Billy?  Don't  you  know  me?  It's 
been  a  long  time,  Billy;  but  there's  my  hand. 
What!    Got  the  fever,  Billy? 

Billy.  O,  Sandy,  Sandy !  I'm  so  glad  you  have 
come  at  last,  for  my  time  to  die  has  come. 

[57] 


THE  DANITES   IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Sandy.  No.  no.  Now  you  look  here.  I'm  goin* 
to  take  care  of  you  after  this,  whether  the  camp  Ukes 
it  or  not.  Yes,  I  will ;  and  just  'cause  they  make 
it  too  hard  on  you.  I'll  come  to  your  cabin  and  stay 
right  here. 

Billy.  No,  Sandy.  But  let  the  school  children 
come,  and  not  be  frightened  and  run  away.  Let 
some  one  stay  with  me  all  the  time.  O,  please,  all 
the  time,  Sandy. 

Sandy.  I  will  stay  with  you  all  the  time.  Yes, 
I  will.    Why  not?    What  else  am  I  fit  for  now? 

Billy.  No,  Sandy,  no.  But  when  it's  all,  all 
over,  Sandy,  I  want  to  be  laid  by  her  side,  Sandy. 
She  was  so  good  to  me;  so  unselfish;  pure  as  the 
lily's  inmost  leaf;  white  and  high  as  yonder  snowy 
mountains  in  their  crown  of  clouds.  Yes,  by  her 
side.    Promise  me  that,  Sandy ;  by  her  side. 

Sandy.  (Aside.)  By  her  side!  (Aloud.)  Well, 
yes.    Yes  Billy,  by  her  side. 

Billy.  And,  Sandy,  you  will  set  up  a  little  gran- 
ite stone,  and  you  will  place  on  that  stone  the  name 
that  you  find  in  this  book. 

Sandy.    The  name  I  find  in  that  book  ? 

Billy.  Promise  me.  Trust  me  and  promise  me. 
It  is  a  little  thing  I  ask  and  the  last,  the  last  I  shall 
ever  ask  of  any  one.  A  little  stone  by  your  own 
hand,  and  the  name  you  find  here,  Sandy.  Promise ! 
O,  promise  me  this  last,  last,  request.  No,  don't 
open  the  book  now;  don't  look  at  the  book  now; 
but  promise  me. 

Sandy.    I  promise. 

Billy.  O,  thank  you;  thank  you.  Why,  what 
is  that!  O,  Sandy,  I  tremble  at  every  sound.  It 
may  be  that  it  is  death  calling  me  now.    Help  me ! 

[58] 


THE  DANITES  IN   THE   SIERRAS 


Help!  (Enter  Capt.  T.  and  Bunker,  running,  and 
out  of  breath.) 

Capt.  T.  Sandy!  Sandy!  {Twisting  up  hair.) 
Now,  where's  that  bald-headed  old  mule  of  mine  ? 

Sandy.    Why,  what's  up  in  the  Forks,  now? 

Bunker.  What's  up  ?  Why  them  strangers  have 
called  out  the  Vigilantes.  They  say  that  this  boy, 
Billy  Piper,  has  confessed  he  killed  her;  yes,  her 
and  the  baby. 

Sandy.    Then  I'll  kill  him.     {About  to  strike.)     ' 

Capt.  T.  {Catching  him.)  You're  a  fool!  Come 
here!     That  boy  is — well  that  boy  is — is — well,  if 

you  don't  stand  up  and  fight  for  him O,  a  man 

never  has  no  sense,  no  how.  {Bunker  and  she  roll 
up  sleeves.) 

Bunker.  {Talking  off ,  L.)  If  you  want  to  pitch 
in,  just  pitch  into  us. 

Sandy.    Well,  if  he's  squar'. 

Capt.  T.  Squar'.  In  there,  Billy.  {Pushes  him 
into  Cabin  and  closes  door.)  You  just  win  this  fight 
and  swing  them  Danites!  Yes,  Danites!  Nobody 
dares  say  it  but  me  and  Bunkerhill.  I  tell  you  they 
are  Danites.    Shoo,  here  they  come ! 

{Enter  judge,  L.,  puffing  and  blowing,  and  mop- 
ping face.  Shouts  heard.  Capt.  T.  catches  him  and 
spins  him  round.) 

Judge.  A  hot  mornin'  for  the  glorious  climate 
of 

Capt.  T.  Now  you  fight  on  the  right  side,  you 
old  simpleton,  or  it'll  be  hotter.  And  I'll  teach  you 
suthin'  about  the  glorious  climate  of  California  you 
never  heard  of  before. 

Bunkerhill.  And  there's  Tim  a  leadin'  of  the 
Vigilants!  {Enter  Tim  L.)  Here!  {Wheels  him 
in  place  by  Sandy  and  Judge.)    There's  your  place. 

[59] 


THE  DANITES   IN    THE   SIERRAS 


(Enter  mob  of  miners  L._,  led  by  Hick,  and  Carter.) 

Tim.    But  Billy's  got  to  go,  Bunker. 

Miners.     Yes,  run  him  out ! 

Parson.  (Entering  L.  i  E.  and  drawing  pistol.) 
What's  that?  You  run  out  Billy  Piper?  Poor, 
sickly  little  Billy,  that  never  gets  any  bigger  and 
never  has  a  beard?  Look  here!  When  you  run 
him  out,  you  do  it  right  here  over  my  bones.  (Pistol 
at  face  of  Hick.) 

Hick.  But  he  is  a  murderer.  He  has  confessed 
to  us  both  that  it  was  he  who  murdered  that  poor 
wife  and  babe.      He  is  a  murderer  and  must  die. 

Parson.  That  voice !  That  face !  Didn't  I  tell 
you  we  should  meet  again  ?  And  didn't  I  tell  you  I 
should  know  you  when  we  met?  (Tears  off  beard 
disguise  from  Hick.'s  face.)  These  are  the  men  I 
saw  at  her  cabin.  These  are  the  men  that  murdered 
her.  Danites  !  Danites !  Danites !  Boys,  what  shall 
be  their  sentence?  (Enter  Washee  Washee  down  C. 
brandishing  rasor.) 

Judge.  (Draws  long  pistol;  down  centre.)  Well, 
as  I  am  the  only  Judge  in  this  part  of  this  glorious 
climate  of  California,  T  pronounce  them  guilty  and 
sentence  them  to  die  with  their  boots  on. 

All.  Hang  them!  Hang  them!  (Hick,  and 
Carter  are  seized  and  hurried  off  L.) 

Capt.  T.  Well,  I  guess  the  Judge  will  look  after 
them.  And  Bunker,  we  better  look  after  Billy. 
Sandy,  you  stay  here;  we  may  need  you.  Billy's 
pretty  sick.  But  he  won't  be  half  so  sick,  when 
they're  dancin'  in  the  air. 

Sandy.  I'll  stop  right  here,  and  if  I  can  help 
poor  Billy,  say  so. 

Bunkerhill.     You're    right.      Billy's    the    best 

[60] 


THE   DANITES   IN    THE   SISR5AS 


friend  you  ever  had.  (Exit  with  Capt.  T.  into 
cabin.     Enter  Tim  and  Judge,  followed  by  miners.) 

Tim.     Well,  they're  on  their  way,  Sandy. 

Sandy.     To  San  Francisco? 

Judge.     To  Kingdom  Come ! 

Sandy.  Good,  good!  Served  'em  right.  True, 
it  don't  bring  her  and  the  babe  back  to  us  boys ;  but 
we  can  be  kind  to  Billy  now.  Poor  little  Billy. 
We've  been  mighty  hard  on  him. 

Tim.  Well,  I  feel  kind  o'  cheap  about  it,  too. 
Let's  go  in  and  cheer  him  up. 

Judge.     And  get  him  out  in  this   glorious 

(About  to  lead  into  cabin.    Is  met  by  Capt.  T.) 

Capt.  T.  Stop!  Only  women  must  enter  that 
cabin  now.  For  it  is  a  woman  who  has  lived  there 
all  these  years.     Billy  Piper  is  no  more. 

All.     What,  dead? 

BuNKERHiLL.  (Leading  out  BUly  in  woman's 
dress.)  Yes,  Billy  Piper  is  dead.  But  Nancy 
WiUiams  lives ! 

All.     Nancy  Williams! 

Parson.  Shake  hands!  Shake  hands  with  the 
old  Parson.  (Takes  hand,  shakes  and  kisses  it.) 
And  Sandy,  old  pard,  I  know  where  this  little  hand, 
like  a  fluttered  bird,  wants  to  fly  to.  (  Gives  hand  to 
Sandy.) 

Sandy.  And  you  give  me  your  hand,  to — to — to 
— keep  always  ? 

Billy.  To  keep  as  the  stars  keep  place  in  heaven, 
Sandy. 

Miners.  (Forward;  hats  in  hand.)  We  all 
begs  your  pardon.  Miss. 

Sandy.  Yes,  we  all  do.  We  don't  mean  bad; 
but  it's  a  rough  country,  and  we're  rough,  and  we've 
not  been  good  to  you.  But  there  is  an  old  and 
[6i] 


•*'•••  •••'^•E  3aA.Nijis..IN   THE  SIERRAS 

beautiful  story  in  the  Bible — (to  audience) — you've 
all  heard  it  before  you  learned  to  read,  I  reckon.  It 
is  of  that  other  Eden.  There  the  living  God  met 
man  face  to  face,  communed  with  him  every  day  in 
his  own  form.  And  yet  that  man  fell.  Well,  now, 
we  don't  claim  to  be  better  than  they  were  in  Eden, 
even  in  the  heart  of  the  Sierras. 

Curtain. 


62] 


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